


Cleansweep

by Lopfe



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Body Modification, Dubious Consent, Dubious Science, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, Multi, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Other, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Roleplay, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, TFAnonKinkMeme, Wheeljack's crazy inventions, incredibly awkward porn, incredibly bad porn, so much kink, starts off amusing but turns serious quickly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopfe/pseuds/Lopfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infected with a virus which has downloaded pornography into his memory core, Wheeljack has no choice but to re-enact every file individually when his overdeveloped processors make a hash of removing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infection

**Author's Note:**

> I claim absolutely no knowledge of computer programming AT ALL, so please forgive any mistakes on my part in that regard. Just excuse it as a language barrier because this planet doesn't have the right terminology for what the Cybertronian's internal components actually are. Cheers.

He didn’t understand.

He sat on the floor, hands and chassis smoking with blast residue, staring straight ahead and yet not seeing anything other than the data his diagnostic programs were flashing at him.

Where was it all coming from? Files and files of the stuff, streaming directly into his short-term memory. He couldn’t stop his CPU from processing it, could only keep it from downloading the files into his core programming where he would never be able to purge them. They went into the hard memory, his diagnostic programmes reporting the creation of tags, keywords, and internal links, and by Primus they were a virtual web of files, connecting themselves to anything that shared a similar content. There was so much of it, that even with his rapid response of shutting down his wi-fi and anything wi-fi compatible, it was still enough to clog up his virtual memory for a klik or two.

It made no sense. His invention wasn’t even capable of communicating information wirelessly. When it had exploded – which it shouldn’t have done either since it wasn’t even _plugged in_ \- logic dictated that it should have just combusted and emitted a bunch of noxious chemicals. Not suddenly start streaming a dump of files directly through his CPU.

Though, Wheeljack had to admit as his systems corrected themselves and controlled mobility returned, having things go wrong when they so clearly shouldn’t be able to _was_ one of his forte’s.

Pushing himself up into a more comfortable position against the wall, he ran a tracing program, following the flow of data back to where it initially infiltrated. He was moved to surprise when he found, instead of some unrecognisable signal from his slagged invention, that it was his own systems which had initiated the download. He found the virus quickly, disguising itself as a line of code that monitored his fuel tank levels. With no small amount of glee he isolated the code and purged it.

Where he’d picked up that little gem he had no idea. The thought that a human had written a code to break into a Cybertronian was a little unfathomable. Amusing, even. His firewalls were the best on the Ark; even Ratchet couldn’t penetrate them unless they were purposely lowered. Unless…

He ran another check.

Frag. Unless that explosion a breem ago knocked them flat on their afts. They were up again now – his recovery systems were excellent – but his logs reported a significant failure of his firewalls for a nano-klik. Obviously just enough time to let the foreign code in and allow it to disguise itself within his systems.

He covered his face with his hands. Explosions he could live with, enjoyed even. Shoddy firewalls? How embarrassing.

The door beside him suddenly swished open, a concerned face peering around the frame at him.

“Hey, Wheeljack,” Bluestreak said, his tone surprised though Wheeljack couldn’t fathom why it would be. His being on the floor wasn’t really anything all that unusual. “Are you okay? I heard the explosion. Not as big as the last one, but still a nice job. You need a hand?”

Wheeljack had just enough time to see the young gunner extend his hand down to help him up before a strange program activated. Keywords of ‘big’, ‘job’ and ‘hand’ flashed in the upper left corner of the diagnostics frame, and a corresponding avi file suddenly began to play in his active memory.

He hadn’t shut his optics off, and as he lurched to the side, an inarticulate sound of surprise emerging from his vocaliser, he had a disturbing double image of a human doing something very unhygienic with her mouth and Bluestreak’s pelvic armour right where it shouldn’t be.

“Gah!”

“Wheeljack! You all right?!”

“Gotta shut it off!”

“What’s wrong? Should I get Ratchet? I saw him with Swoop earlier in the rec hall but if I comm him he should get here pretty quickly.”

Wheeljack mentally flailed around for command codes while trying to avoid noticing anything the images were showing. “N-nah! I c’n do it!” He told the worried gunner, almost shouting to hear himself over the video’s audio. “Just gimme a klik!”

It took a little bit longer than a klik, but eventually he managed to stop the image from playing any further.

It was almost kind of funny that it was pornography, if it wasn’t so unexpected.

“Phew!” he said, his appendages flickering with a surprised pink glow. “That was disturbing.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get Ratchet?” Bluestreak asked, trying hard not to show just how confused and worried he was.

“Nah, I’m all good. Just had a bit of an accident is all. Gotta purge some files.”

Bluestreak looked at him, concern still obvious. “If you’re sure...”

“Of course. Won’t take long.”

Well it wouldn’t have, if the files were normal. Which they weren’t. They absolutely refused to be purged. He couldn’t isolate and delete without taking files that they had linked themselves to; some of which were important memories he would have been bereft without. Those keywords, and those tags – sneaky little tendrils of virus that Perceptor would have a field day working out – were linked up to almost everything!

He sighed, resigned. He guessed it would be another trip to Ratchet’s medbay and another berating of his supposed carelessness. Still, what an interesting virus. He wondered what the CMO and Perceptor would think of it.

Bluestreak was peering down at him when he returned his concentration externally.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Wheeljack cocked his head to the side. “Sure. But where’re we goin’?”

Bluestreak’s optics flickered in a confused blink. “To the meeting. Prowl just comm’d us. Didn’t you get it?”

Wheeljack shook his head. “Turned the internal comm’s off.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Quickly, he switched them back on. He braced himself for another download of disturbing material, but his firewalls encountered nothing. Purging the foreign code must have removed the download commands. “Okay, let’s go.”

He hoped no one said the combinations of ‘hand’ or ‘job’ again until he’d had Ratchet purge the virus, though. He would never deny that he was a curious mech, but stuff like that coming at him from nowhere was a little too much. He’d much rather it if he witnessed stuff like that of his own volition. And preferably live, as well, where he could scan the participants and monitor the chemical reactions that took place.

Pornography. He snickered. The look on Ratchet’s face was going to be priceless.


	2. The Meeting / Doctors and Scientists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack seeks help from Ratchet for his pornography problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vulgar language from _really bad_ porn.

Wheeljack was bored.

It wasn’t that Prowl’s reports were uninteresting – they weren’t. They were informative, factual, clinical and precise. Wheeljack could appreciate that. And it wasn’t that Jazz’s reports were droll or mundane, either. The Third-in-Command’s version of a report was energetic, enlightening, passionate and intuitive and Wheeljack could grasp his perspective clearly. But it was all the in-house debate and petty bickering amongst the rest of the crew that made coming to these sorts of meetings a trial in keeping Wheeljack’s attention where it was supposed to be. He was never interested in arguments, unless they were of the fun kind; and the same old slander being slung at and by the same mechs as it usually was, was not fun in the least.

The alpha and gamma shifts were really going at it this time, though.

“Do you think Sunstreaker’s going to snap and hit someone?” Skids leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in his audios.

Wheeljack grimaced beneath his mask. “Looks to me more like Ironhide’s ‘bout to blow a gasket.”

“Cliffjumper’s going get caught right in the middle of it.”

“Ahuh.”

Sure enough, the minibot was, though not the subject of Ironhide’s fierce glare, standing between the red security officer and the one who was. In all likelihood Ironhide probably didn’t even know he was there, which was unfortunate for Cliffjumper, as all the racket in the briefing room was drowning out his shouts of protest.

“Prime’s going to call it to order soon.” Skids vocals sounded almost disappointed.

Suddenly Ratchet’s helm appeared between them, and in dismay the medic shook his head. “It’ll take a freight train to put a stop to this caterwauling,” he told them.

Wheeljack flickered his optics as he felt something strange internally ‘ping’ at him.

“You reckon?” Skids asked, sounding doubtful, and Wheeljack tapped the side of his head as if it was an itch.

“Yep. Tracks has only just gotten started.”

“Bunch of hot-headed idiots,” Skids muttered.

There. Whatever it was did it again. Wheeljack tapped a little harder with his knuckle.

“Poor Prime,” Ratchet agreed, consoling across the room from the beleaguered commander. “He’s got his hands full tonight.”

And suddenly it was happening again. With the same swiftness and unstoppable deliverance of the first occurrence, his diagnostics frame was pulled open, two keywords flashing in the search box in the upper left corner, and before he could prepare himself for the images to come, the file was already opened and playing loud and clear in his active memory.

Wheeljack wasn’t bored anymore. With his hand still pressed knuckle first against the side of his helm he stared straight ahead, unseeing of the chaos of the briefing room though it still carried on behind the images moving rhythmically in his active memory.

<< _Ah, ah! That’s it baby, give it to me…_ >>

<< _You’re so fuckin’ hot!_ >>

<< _Oh yeah, yeah…_ >>

The cacophony of the bickering ‘bots wasn’t enough to drown out the video’s audio. The two humans involved with each other were louder than Grimlock, and what they were saying…

<< _Fuck me!_ >>

<< _Your pussy’s so wet…_ >>

It wasn’t as though his kind didn’t have… unorthodox names for their own interfacing equipment, it was just that in the humans predominant language it sounded so much more naughty than it had a right to be.

And Primus, were they doing it on a _train_?

<< _Oh yeah, oh yeah…_ >>

Fascinated, even though he knew he shouldn’t be, he delayed in stopping the video, instead watching it for a klik or so more than was probably safe for his cognitive drives. What they were doing was just… and on a train, a public mode of transport? How did they get away with filming that sort of thing without being interrupted? And what on Cybertron was the human male doing with _that_ … oh.

For a moment, caught in a mix of revulsion and his overwhelming curiosity, he thought he might have heard someone call his name. It was quickly overlaid by what sounded like Ironhide yelling, “Get your thin-plated aft back ‘ere n’ take it like th’ mech you are!” and a loud << _Oh fuck, yeah!_ >> from the human female suspended from the overhead railings, bouncing with the energetic movements from her male partner.

“Wheeljack?”

<< _Oh yeah, baby, fuck, fuck me!_ >>

“Wheeljack?”

<< _Harder! Harder!_ >>

_“Why you worthless pile of slaggin’—”_

“Wheeljack!”

A hand came down hard on his shoulder, and with the accompanying shout it was enough to draw his attention away from the crude display in his active memory to the flashing optics of the medic looming over him with an amour juddering start.

“What?!” he said quickly, refreshing his optics as he swiftly shut the active pornography file down, his pumps working double time to calm his shocked systems. “What is it?”

Ratchet stared at him for a long moment, then sat back down into his seat. “You weren’t responding to us,” he told him. Over the medic’s shoulder Wheeljack could see Skids staring at him confusedly. “We called your name four times. You’re holding your head. Anything wrong?”

Wheeljack shook a refusal, processors working furiously to figure out how to say it without actually saying anything, then dipped his head in a partial nod. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Got a file that refuses to be purged. You doin’ anythin’ after this, Ratchet? Got a breem to spare?”

Ratchet’s face settled back into the odd mix of concern and cynicism that somehow seemed to cohabit his features without any conflict, and tossed a long-suffering stare his way. “For you, ‘Jack, I’ve got four.”

“I don’t need that many.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Wheeljack considered his own history with mishaps, and the oddity of his current ailment, then sighed resignedly. “Maybe I do,” he echoed Ratchet’s tone.

“Good,” the medic told him, “Once Optimus has finished quietly ripping everyone’s pride to ribbons we’ll get going.”

“How long do you think that’ll be?” Skids asked.

Ratchet cast a thoughtful glance over at their esteemed leader looming non-threateningly over the security detail, and answered confidently; “One point seven five of a breem.”

“I say one point seven nine. Sideswipe is plotting.”

“You’re on.”

 

 

In actuality, it had taken only one point seven _two_ of a breem for Optimus Prime to appropriately cow the majority of the inconsiderate mechs for their ‘youngling-like’ behaviour, but Wheeljack wasn’t going to push any further than his mild comment that Ratchet’s prowess at marking time values was slipping. His friend seemed annoyed enough that Wheeljack was following him to the medical bay, inviting further ire would probably wind up with him requiring a days rest for the acquired dents in his helm to pop out.

He loved his best friend to distraction sometimes, but that temper of his was something that had taken a long time for him to feel fully comfortable with. And even then, feeling comfortable with it didn’t mean he particularly _liked_ it in any capacity. While he endeavoured to keep from stirring it too much, unfortunately (and Wheeljack grimaced behind his mask) his own personality meant that sparks were inevitably going to fly sooner or later between the two of them; Ratchet was withdrawn and careful, while he was… not so much.

First Aid was the only personnel on duty in the medical bay for beta shift and Wheeljack felt a sense of relief that it was only the Protectobot there and no patients to speak of. He wasn’t sure that he was ready to cry to the whole Ark that he had picked up a human internet virus. It would put him in the line up for an incessant amount of teasing, as if he wasn’t already subject to enough.

Ratchet gestured him over to a berth at the opposite end of the bay to where First Aid was taking inventory, and Wheeljack obeyed with the minimum of fuss. He usually griped and made excuses, but his processor was too busy running scenarios of explanations and responses to put up too much resistance. Finding an adequate way to say what had happened without enticing Ratchet to anger was… Wheeljack sighed. Impossible? It was probably best that he was blunt about it.

“What happened?”

“My invention exploded and knocked down my firewalls for oh-point-oh-oh-three-two-eight of a klik, allowin’ a human internet virus ta penetrate my meta an’ trigger a download into my processors. Now I have human pornography playin’ randomly in my active memory when people say certain words.”

Mmm… maybe that was too blunt.

Wheeljack wasn’t sure if Ratchet had involuntarily shut down, or was just that surprised by his statement. He stared, and stared, and eventually Wheeljack waved his hand in front of Ratchet’s optics and chortled a sing-song hello at him to see if he was even aware. When that didn’t produce a response he ran a few quick scans, and sighed, relieved, when they reported that systems were normal. He then kicked the medic’s knee. Ratchet was just having one of his rare moments of humour. Ha, ha, ha.

Sure enough, a nano klik after his pede left a small scuff on the medic’s knee a hand came up and walloped him around the helm.

“Ow!”

“Glitch-head. Let’s shift this to the back room.”

The Back Room. Uh, oh. Wheeljack slid down off the berth and tried to ignore the small quaking he felt start in his abdomen. The back room was never a good place to be with Ratchet, and sure enough as he followed behind his best friend he caught the sympathetic look First Aid spared him from his corner. This was not going to be fun.

Okay, Wheeljack reassessed from his position lying flat on the cushioned berth in the Intensive Care Unit, otherwise named ‘The Back Room’, listening to Ratchet trying to talk him into lowering his firewalls. It could be sort of fun. The poking and prodding wasn’t, of course, and nor was the idea of dropping his only cerebral protection, but teasing Ratchet allowed a small modicum of enjoyment to be found in an otherwise uncomfortable environment.

“Don’t be so paranoid, Wheeljack. We’ll be a closed circuit and you know I don’t have anything to give you.”

“I dunno, Ratch’. Who you been interfacin’ with lately?”

“None of your business. And I’ll give you some of last year’s stash of twin-cured high grade.”

“I dunno.”

“I may consider reconsidering my decision regarding those ‘top secret’ items you requested from the Japanese Government.”

“I can’t believe you said no in the first place. They weren’t a health risk.”

“To my sanity they were. And I know you’re still holding out for them.”

“True.”

“And?”

Wheeljack cycled air in frustration. “Ratchet…”

“Wheeljack.” And there was Ratchet’s all business voice back again. “I can’t see what it is I have to fix until you show me, it’s as simple as that and you know it. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this! Don’t make me call in Perceptor.”

It was a laughable threat, yet Wheeljack started, turning pleading eyes to his oldest friend. “You wouldn’t. Ratch’!”

Ratchet tapped Wheeljack’s helm, finger resting beside the port where they were joined via cable. “Then let. Me. In. I won’t take anything, ‘Jack, I swear.”

Wheeljack relaxed his tight grip on the edges of the berth at Ratchet’s sincerity. “I know that, Ratch’, but…”

“Yeah.”

Wheeljack sighed. “Yeah.”

“Come on, Wheeljack. Let’s fix you. Let me in.”

“Fine.” And with great strength of will he opened the gateway.

It was always weird to feel another code worming through his own meta, foreign and strangely cool. The contrast between the sensation of Ratchet moving smooth and tentatively and the numb crawl of the virus was off-putting. He could only feel the virus if it did something, but Ratchet, alive and cognisant, following each strand of the web that linked the virus to parts of himself was a touch that he both wanted to shirk away from, and envelop completely. There were good reasons for both reactions, he supposed, but he didn’t like the way the two combined made him feel. He should never experience that kind of revulsion for a close friend, ever, and it made him feel guilty that he couldn’t stop it.

And then, at Ratchet’s discovery of the full span of the virus, he felt that welcomed and loathed presence withdraw.

There was the weight of Ratchet’s hand on his shoulder, and Wheeljack took a moment to realise that he had shuttered his optics. Turning them back on, Ratchet’s expression was serious. And a little apologetic.

“I’m sorry, ‘Jack,” he said, and his fingers squeezed lightly. “This is huge. I can’t do it by myself. I’m going to have to call in Perceptor.”

Wheeljack stiffened, but reluctantly felt himself nodding. He thought it would have to come to that, though he really wished it hadn’t. Ratchet was the best medic on Cybertron; but he wasn’t a scientist, dealing with foreign viruses and alien code was not his forte. Only Perceptor and Skyfire were truly gifted in that area, and with Skyfire on a mission off-world Perceptor was the only mech available.

It didn’t take all that long for Perceptor to arrive. He was on beta shift, and had been in his laboratory in the same sector as the med bay. The reason he took as long as he did, Wheeljack thought, was probably because it took a while for things to penetrate when he was involved in research. The two of them were a bit alike in that respect.

“You require my assistance, Ratchet?”

“Yeah, come in.” Ratchet gestured the scientist to come and sit on the other side of the berth. “Wheeljack’s got a virus that won’t purge. The code has, for lack of a better word, spider-webbed throughout his meta, linking files and commands indiscriminately. I need you to take a look and try to sort it out.”

Perceptor took the seat and leaned over Wheeljack, who waved. “Heya, Percy.”

“Greetings, Wheeljack.” He looked over at Ratchet. “You are unable to make sense of it?”

Ratchet grumbled. “It’s out of my expertise, Perceptor. I wouldn’t know where to start. I need to understand the virus to create the patch. This one is… huge. And confusing.”

“And how did you contract this virus, if you don’t mind me enquiring?”

“My invention exploded and knocked my firewalls down for a klik.” Wheeljack responded, vocaliser hissing slightly with static, despite his effort to sound calm.

“Ah,” Perceptor sighed. “Very well. May I have permission to access you, Wheeljack?”

It took a great force of will to get the ‘yes’ out of his vocaliser, and an even greater command of his reactions to keep from jerking back at the first touch of Perceptor’s cable against his cerebral port. His fingers clenched around the edges of the berth, digging in hard enough to dent when the connections slipped into place.

Perceptor was unsurprisingly quick and efficient. He traced the lines of virus code easily enough, and though Wheeljack fought viciously with himself to keep from attacking Perceptor’s invasion, he feared that he might have let a little of that animosity through, because Perceptor seemed to quicken his slink through his meta even more and withdrew fairly quickly afterwards.

It only took a little manipulation to put what Perceptor had encountered up on the diagnostics monitor above the berth, connecting Wheeljack directly to the computer with one of Ratchet’s intensive monitoring programs.

“My word, this is impressive,” Perceptor commented, staring up at the screen. “I wouldn’t classify this so much as a virus, Wheeljack. Ratchet’s term of ‘web’ seems to be decidedly more accurate.”

Wheeljack wasn’t going to doubt that. He could decipher code well enough, after all, it was his second major, and Perceptor and Ratchet’s comments were bang on from what he could see.

“You can sort this out?”

Perceptor nodded. “Most certainly. It will take some time, of course, but I should have a patch prepared within the next three orns.”

“Thank Primus,” Wheeljack sighed. “I’ve already seen two of these video files an’ I don’t fancy seein’ any more if I can help it.”

“I must admit that I’m curious about these avi files. What is their content?”

“Um…”

“Pornography,” Ratchet said flatly. “Our friend here has human sex practises in his head.”

Perceptor’s expression was priceless. Naturally, Wheeljack filed it away for posterity.

 

 

Three joors later and they had a game plan. Perceptor was going to work on the patch, one that would allow Wheeljack to replace the video files with video images of his own making, disabling the existing tags and links and enabling the virus to be purged section by section. It was a relief, knowing that with each tag or keyword nullified meant that less videos would be pulled up to play in situations where they would be inappropriate. If they happened when he was working and he became distracted or startled… well… No one would be particularly happy with him.

Perceptor had reassured both Wheeljack and Ratchet, not that Wheeljack needed the assurance, that the virus was benign. A drone virus only, not designed to do anything other than be an annoyance. Wheeljack had known that from the first initial scan he’d run after the download. Still, the virus wasn’t something he wanted to keep in his meta, and Perceptor’s idea to remove it was better than leaving it in there.

It would take time, sure, but time was something he had a lot of. Wheeljack didn’t mind. His steps were light and meta preoccupied with fixing his damaged invention, the explosion of which he still couldn’t explain, as he headed back to his quarters to recharge.


	3. The Diagnosis / The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get slightly worse for Wheeljack. Seems like the virus isn't as inert as first assumed.

Wheeljack was glad when the first orn passed quickly and without incident. There were no further occurrences involving random segments of pornography playing in his meta at the response of spoken words – though his avoidance of any social situations may have been one of the major contributing factors to that small miracle. He’d also set his active status to ‘inventing’ which had deterred almost everyone who might have thought of contacting him. As a result, his recharging had been peaceful and uninterrupted, and it wasn’t until he was collecting his ration of energon before his next shift the following orn that he noticed something was… wrong.

Well, not so much wrong as peculiar. Maybe his olfactory sensors were on the fritz, or something, but the odour of the energon in the commissary was different than usual. He took a tentative sniff of his cube, analysing the compounds as they ran through his filters. They were the same standard amounts of the usual compounds, nothing peculiar about the content, and yet the smell was… somehow changed. Bitter and flat, if they were words that could adequately describe a scent. The energon smelled completely unappetising.

Sitting at a free bench he checked his energy levels, unhappy to note that he was running pretty low. He had to drink the energon ration if he didn’t want to randomly lose some processing power halfway through his shift. In his occupation it was dangerous to be even slightly below optimum capacity, but with the energon crisis as it was, he hadn’t been running at optimum in quite a long time. This was probably why he’d been having so many accidents in the lab as of late. He couldn’t afford to drop his levels any further; he’d probably end up blowing himself and half of the Ark back to Cybertron.

“Oh well, it’s only a smell,” he murmured to himself. “It’s probably somethin’ off in my sensors.” He shrugged, and took a mouthful. Immediately the pump in his processor tank lurched, reversing the pressure, and the energon came back up in a bright splatter on the table. Wheeljack jerked away, hand coming up to cover his mask while his other hand dropped the still full cube to the floor.

The taste… it was utterly _foul!_. The first touch of it against the nodes in his throat and he couldn’t bear to have it in him any longer. The mechs sitting closest to him startled, staring at him while he cursed, fingers wiping at his mask, damp where the filtering alloy had allowed the energon to pass back through. He hadn’t thought that it would allow liquids to pass through in both directions; he had been lead to believe it only allowed them through one way. It was an interesting discovery, he just wished it hadn’t have been _now_ that he’d found it out.

“Wheeljack? You okay?” someone asked. A yellow frame approached in the corner of his vision, and a small hand came to rest on his shoulder.

Wheeljack shuddered. “Oh, Primus! That was disgustin’!”

“The energon?” Bumblebee asked him, leaning around his shoulder to look at him concernedly. “There’s nothing wrong with mine.”

Wheeljack wiped one last time at his mask, satisfied that it was clean, before looking forlornly at the small puddle of energon on the table. “I’m not sure there was with mine, either.” He stated. “I analysed it before I drank and the compounds were the same as they usually are. The problem’s with me, I think.”

His supposition only served to make the diminutive spy look even more concerned. “Please tell me you’re going to see Ratchet? This doesn’t sound so good.”

Wheeljack patted the minibot on his bright shoulder, flashing a smile through his resonators to alleviate the worried frown on Bumblebee’s lips. “Don’t worry, Bee. I’ll go and see him now. After all, can’t start a shift without the drink of champions!”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“What?” Wheeljack bent forward, squeezing reassuringly at the youngling’s shoulder. “No, Bee. You stay here. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just a few sensors actin’ up. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“You sure?” Primus, Wheeljack wondered if the ‘bot could make his optics shine any brighter. “It’s just I’ve never seen anyone purge energon before. It’s kinda scary.”

Wheeljack chuckled. “Well, if it’ll make you feel any better you can walk me there, alright?”

Bumblebee nodded, a relieved look passing over his features. “Thanks, Wheeljack. I’d feel better if I help you.”

“Well then come on. We don’t want to miss Ratchet’s mid-morning grump.”

Bumblebee chuckled, and followed the older ‘bot out.

 

 

Ratchet was glowering.

“Well,” he said, arms folded and fingers tapping at his elbows. “Did you bring the cube with you?”

Wheeljack exchanged a guilty glance with Bumblebee. “Well, neither of us really thought about it. Too concerned with me purgin’ my tanks than pickin’ the cube off of the floor.”

Ratchet’s optics flashed. “Then how do you expect me to make an accurate diagnosis without the energon to test?”

“But I already did that,” Wheeljack protested. “I analysed it before I drank. Everythin’ was normal.”

“Hmmm… Might be the sensors then, let me check.”

Bumblebee fidgeted beside him. “Is Wheeljack going to be okay, Ratchet?”

“Hmm?” The medic looked up from where he was examining the readouts on one of his tools. “Oh, yes. It’s more than likely a shorted fuse, and that’s easy to fix. I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Bee.”

“Doesn’t your shift start in a breem, Bee?” Wheeljack asked.

The little ‘bot looked startled. “Shoot!” he said. “You’re right. I better get going.” Bumblebee paused at the doorway, turning to wave. “Get better soon, Wheeljack!” he called. The doors hissed closed behind him.

Ratchet let out a grunt of displeasure, and Wheeljack turned to look up at him.

“I recognise that scowl,” he said. “What are you hidin’?”

Ratchet shook the small handheld instrument, then flicked at its screen with the tip of his finger. “Nothing. It can’t find anything wrong with your processing system. No shorts, no damages.”

“Then why am I purgin’?”

Ratchet shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not a parts problem – everything is working fine.” Ratchet looked at him. “Maybe the energon had a foreign body in it.”

“Maybe.”

“Here,” Ratchet said, thrusting something towards his chest. Compulsively Wheeljack accepted it, looking down to see a half-full cube of energon in his hands.

He looked up at Ratchet. “Where-”

“I bring my cubes back with me. Now drink it. I want to monitor your systems while you do.”

Wheeljack recycled air in a sigh, looking down into the shimmering surface of the energon. There was a quiet hiss as he retracted the panels of the blast shield covering his lower face. If he purged again – which he hoped not – it might mean less mess.

He lifted the cube, about to sip when Ratchet barked out at him sharply; “Stop!”

Wheeljack started, “What?”

“Take this,” Ratchet handed him a high-edged tray. “If you purge I don’t want it all over the floor.”

“Gee, thanks, Ratch.”

“You’re welcome. Drink.”

“Yes, Tech Sergeant. Right away, sir.”

The tray quickly became Wheeljack’s best friend. If anything, the energon tasted even worse than it had in the commissary, and the purging, when it came, was so violent that Ratchet had to hold him steady to keep him from lurching right off of the berth. He hadn’t sipped much, barely a mouthful, but long after it sat in a luminous puddle in the tray his pump continued to heave.

“You’re okay, Jack. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not a… fraggin’ younglin’, Ratch,” He groaned, hunching over but not away from the sympathetic patting on his shoulder. He knew Ratchet was only trying to comfort him, but… frag, purging energon was something sparklings did. “Why am I purgin’ like this?”

Ratchet sounded worried. “I don’t know. I’m going to comm Perceptor.”

Wheeljack straightened up, intakes coughing, pump churning but staving off another violent heave. “You think it might be somethin’ to do with the virus?”

“I said I don’t know. Perceptor can at least rule it out. Are you done?”

“I think so. What’s your scanner say?”

“That it’s easing.”

“Then take this,” he handed over the energon-splattered tray. “I’m going to lie down before I fall down.”

Ratchet chuckled. “And that’s why you’re one of my favourite patients, ‘Jack. Now, if only you didn’t come to visit so often…”

 

 

It wasn’t long before Wheeljack found himself plugged into again.

He still didn’t like the feeling. It was something he didn’t think that he could ever get used to. Lying on his back and watching the figures of his two friends leaning over him, Ratchet fiddling with his instruments and Perceptor pulling and displaying his observations onto the diagnostics screen above the berth, did nothing at all to alleviate the alien crawl of a foreign meta.

Their chatter, however, provided a blessed distraction. He focused almost compulsively on it, listening to the verbal play between the two of them, chuckling when one or the other talked themselves into an impasse, only to start on another topic.

Wheeljack thought that it was a waste not having a debate team on the Ark. Ratchet and Perceptor would have made perfect additions. Throw in Mirage and they would be unbeatable. They could probably win the war by argument alone.

Perceptor’s voice cut through Wheeljack’s daydream of an Autobot/Decepticon debating competition, sounding a little bit frustrated.

“I cannot seem to locate anything that would be the cause of purging, Ratchet. The temperature in his processing tank is elevated slightly above normal, but I deduce that to be an after-effect of hyperactivity with the pump.”

Ratchet sounded more annoyed than usual. “There has to be a reason, Perceptor. Not only for the purging, but for the change in scent and taste as well.”

“Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place.”

Wheeljack heard Ratchet sigh. “Then look somewhere else, then.”

“I believe I may have a… oh dear.” Wheeljack craned his head around. “That’s not operating within normal parameters...” Perceptor muttered suddenly, leaning closer, examining the filo-screen and tapping furiously at the console.

“Why?” Ratchet asked. “What do you see?”

Perceptor pointed to something on the screen that Wheeljack couldn’t see, “That is irregular. It should not be responding in that way.”

“I still don’t see what you’re talking about, Percy.”

“That!” the scientist elaborated. Wheeljack craned his neck to get a better view, but Ratchet’s shoulder was in the way, and he could only make out the upper left corner of the screen. “That segment of code. It’s behaving illogically. That is not what it is supposed to look like. It’s coded to be a carrier, but it’s behaving as though it’s an influence.”

“That ain’t normal,” Wheeljack agreed. “Ratchet, could you shuffle over? I can’t see what you’re looking at.”

“You don’t need to see-what?! What’s it doing now?”

“This is most vexing.” Perceptor sounded a mix of confused and excited, which didn’t alleviate any of Wheeljack’s concerns about what the two other mechs were looking at. “It seems to be executing a command that it has not received.”

“Is it connected to what I think it’s connected to?”

“If you mean it’s controlling the core temperature of the energon processing system then you would be correct.”

“Well,” Ratchet huffed. “So much for a hyperactive pump. It does explain the purging, though.”

“Excessive heat over stimulating the sensors? Yes, I can see how that would be the source.”

“This is not a standard glitch.”

“Not one that I have identified before.”

Ratchet cursed. “Bring up the code of the virus again, Perceptor. Let’s see if it has anything to do with this.”

A few more kliks of tapping keys, another trembling slow crawl of foreign code through his meta, and Ratchet started muttering again.

Then he quickly cut himself off.

There was a shifting of gears, a creak as armour was adjusted. Then;

“That’s not.”

“It appears so.”

“Well it better disappear.”

“I’m not certain that it is that simple.”

“It better get that simple or I’m gonna get a lot more mad.”

“I think, if anything, it’s going to become a lot more complicated.”

“You sure this is the code for the virus?”

“Assuredly.”

“Slaggit, Wheeljack!” Ratchet shouted suddenly, a sharp _clang_ chasing his words as he struck whatever it was he held against the side of the berth. “I wish you’d stop messing with your systems. You’ve gone and mutated the virus!”

“Wha?” Wheeljack blinked.

“Oh, dear,” Perceptor said again, and leaned over Ratchet’s shoulder to view the code on the monitor with a closer optic. “I have to conclude that he’s right. This code has significantly changed since I last viewed it.”

“That was only an orn ago!” Wheeljack protested.

“Exactly!” Ratchet shouted, then slammed the spanner – it was a spanner, Wheeljack noted, making an effort not to flinch – into the berth right beside his head. “You idiot! You’ve made yourself so advanced you’ve given an otherwise drone virus brains!”

“I what?” Wheeljack rubbed at the side of his helm.

“It appears cognisant,” Perceptor elucidated for the dazed-appearing mech. “Or as much as a spark-less program can get. It’s identifying key markers in the videos, and I’m concerned that my initial plan of replacing the files with other photo play would no longer work. The program will recognise it as not being what it has replaced, and will reject it.”

“Oh. Well, there has to be another way… Hmmm…” Wheeljack’s processors were working at triple speed. “Unless,” he said slowly, his optics flicking over to Ratchet who appeared to be trying hard not to grimace.

“Don’t say it,” the medic pleaded. “I’m not going to like it, I know it.”

“Unless,” Perceptor continued, following Wheeljack’s unspoken thought processes; “You are to mimic the video files _exactly_.”

“I was right,” the medic moaned.

Wheeljack sat up on the berth. “But what of the angles, an’ the characters involved? If I’ve gotta film as well as participate the angles are gonna be all skewed.”

Perceptor shook his head. “You have no idea just how considerably you’ve influenced your virus, Wheeljack.” He gestured at the code on the screen. “This infection is intelligent, and it’s keyed into your sensory net. It will recognise sensations and interpret them visually. You won’t necessarily even need to film the interfacing itself.”

“Your own understanding, knowledge, and interpretation of situations will make the virus believe what you want it to.” Ratchet added. “Well, hopefully. If I have to accept this outcome I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks, so be as exact as possible, down to the Human language.” He pointed his red finger and jabbed it at Wheeljack’s chest for emphasis.

“Don’t tell me I have to repeat _ev’rythin’?_ ” Wheeljack’s resonators flashed a sickly yellow.

“Yes.”

“Exactly what they say?”

“Ahuh.”

“So I not only have to interface with half of the mechs on the Ark, I’ve also gotta yell out to the Human’s deity while I’m doin’ it?”

At Ratchet and Perceptor’s even-timed nods Wheeljack felt the first sweeping tendrils of dread. “I hate the internet.”

“You were the one dabbling.”

“I didn’t intend to get infected by anythin’.”

“You didn’t think, period!” Ratchet shouted.

“Look, I saw somethin’ that could do with some fixin’, so I fixed it!”

“You fiddled around with your own systems!”

“I _improved_ them!”

“They didn’t need improving!”

“Oh, yeah? Tell that to me next time Soundwave gets in my head and steals one of my inventions to wipe out a nursery!”

“’Jack…”

“Or better yet, when he uses it on the sparklin’ centres, too!”

“’Jack, it wasn’t your--”

“But wait, ya can’t, ‘cause they’re _all gone!_ ”

“No one blamed you for that!”

“I did!” He shouted. “I wasn’t prepared, and so I tried, Ratch! An’ I couldn’t go to someone else ‘cause the alterations might’ve gotten around, and due to some stupid, idiotic mistake I _still_ can’t understand, I’ve got _Human pornography_ in me that doesn’t wanna purge!”

Ratchet’s optics flickered. “These things happen sometimes, Wheeljack,” he said softly.

“It’s demeanin’!”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Wheeljack cycled air loudly in a large, human-like sigh. For a handful of nano klicks he was silent, and Ratchet watched him without comment.

“Yeah, I do,” he said eventually, resonators dim and optics fixed on the face of his oldest friend. “At least I gotta try.”

“’Jack…”

“I’m okay, Ratch’. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

Perceptor, who until then had kept out of the small argument, presented them with something else to do.

“Perhaps we can view the two photo plays that have already run?” He suggested politely. “I believe a plan and a script at this point would be beneficial to all parties set to be involved.” He glanced over at where Wheeljack still sat on the medical berth, Ratchet’s red hand a vibrant contrast against the mechanic’s white shoulder. “That is, if you are certain this is the direction in which you wish to progress?”

Wheeljack nodded. “It’s the only one that seems feasible at the moment.”

“Then,” he gestured at the monitor. “If we may?”

 

 

The videos, Wheeljack decided later, were twice as bad when he had others watching them with him. He wasn’t sure if it was the viewing of something that otherwise should have been very private, or if it was the knowledge that soon he would be acting one of the parts out himself that was encouraging him to flush with a vague sort of embarrassment.

It could also have been the way Perceptor and Ratchet were quietly commenting and critiquing the film, too, bringing up sets and potential characters and Primus knew what else that might have been the main cause for his bother. Whichever it was didn’t really matter, not in the long run. He’d have to get over whatever embarrassment he had if they were going to find out whether his plan to remove the virus was going to work or not.

He almost choked on a non-existent something when his two friends decided that Astrotrain was going to be the setting for the first re-enactment. When he protested loudly about how they were going to keep him still and in train form long enough for the scenario to be played out in full, Ratchet just eyed him stoically and admitted his faith in him. The Decepticon was currently off-world, so he had plenty of time to come up with something.

He’d also felt a combination of shock, and of pleased affection when Perceptor had volunteered to be his partner in the re-enactment. He hadn’t expected it of him, really, and even when Perceptor admitted that it was purely for observational purposes, it didn’t make him feel any less appreciative towards the scientist.

Suddenly, a hitch in the plan appeared, stated clearly in the video by the middle aged male on the train. Immediately, Wheeljack saw a potential problem, and rose up off the edge of the berth to skip the video back a number of frames.

“Sorry, guys, but I think I see a problem,” he said. “We’re gonna have a little issue called ‘clothes’.”

“Clothes?” Perceptor queried.

He started the video again.

<< _Lemme see how pretty your breasts are._ >>

“There!” Wheeljack said, quickly pausing the playback. “How’m I supposed to show my breasts if I don’t have any… or any clothes? It’s not like we can make some of either that large in so short a time.”

“Open your chest plates.”

Wheeljack’s optics flickered at the rapid answer. “Ratchet?”

“Well, the only mimicry of sexual intercourse the two of you could do is directly interfacing.” He looked from both Wheeljack and Perceptor. “You’re going to have to bare your casings and cages eventually.”

“Ah, yes,” Perceptor said. “It would certainly solve the issue of exposing himself to me.”

Wheeljack sent the scientist a resigned look, then turned his optics to his oldest friend. “I’m not going to be able to get around this, am I?”

Ratchet looked sombre, but around his optics Wheeljack could make out the anger that simmered there. The mechanic felt his spark swell with gratitude that his friend would feel indignation on his behalf.

“No, I’m afraid not. You and Perceptor were right; this is the only way to purge the virus.”

Wheeljack sighed, but smiled beneath his mask good naturedly. “Oh, well. At least it won’t be painful. And I’ve got good friends takin’ care of me.” He patted at Perceptor’s shoulder.

The red mech nodded to him. “Now we merely await Astrotrain’s return,” he said.

Ratchet harrumphed. “Might be quicker if we just build a train,” he grumbled. “Decepticons have never been good at time management.”


	4. Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's go time! Wheeljack is understandably not very good at this role play stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains EXTREMELY AWKWARD SEX based off of really bad porn. Percy is overwhelmingly out of character during the role play and it can be quite jarring for those who aren't expecting it.

Repairing the immobiliser had taken some time. Ironhide’s blaster had made a veritable puzzle out of the invention the last time the two of them had met and many of the pieces were near-unrecognisable. Thankfully, Wheeljack knew his experiments inside and out and after only a few orns of tinkering and many replacement parts inserted and tested the small machine was ready to go.

Locating Astrotrain had been more of a problem.

The triple-changer was more often than not off-world or on Cybertron, and finding out when he was on Earth, or near the area was more blind luck than any form of intelligence work.

Apparently, luck seemed to be on Wheeljack’s side for now though, for only two orns after the immobiliser was repaired, Astrotrain appeared on Earth, arriving via a newly constructed space bridge.

Thanking a confused Jazz for the intelligence, Perceptor had made his way with quick haste to the engineer’s workshop. It was not surprising to find Ratchet in there with him. Since the plan was laid out and the full scope of the virus understood there was always one of them with him, except when duties called them away or their shifts were changed. Wheeljack never complained about it, but he wouldn’t come and see either of them himself. It frustrated Ratchet to no end. Tracking him down to feed pre-processed energon to him intravenously was not the medic’s idea of fun.

“Any news?” Ratchet asked from over where he was perusing idly through some of Wheeljack’s old prints. Idly, he reached out a hand and adjusted the feeding tube hooked into one of Wheeljack’s wet ports down his right side. The engineer gave him a filthy look that was completely ignored.

“Jazz reports that Astrotrain arrived this morning through the space bridge. His specific location is unknown, but he has not left the planet yet and is thought to be bypassing the canyon sometime after the zenith.”

“That’s good news.”

“That’s very good news,” Wheeljack added. “So we’re outta here?”

“Presumably.”

Ratchet headed for the door, leaving Wheeljack to unplug himself. “I’ll alert First Aid that I’m leaving the base,” he glanced back at Perceptor. “Everything else is covered?”

“All networks are in place.”

Ratchet nodded. “I’ll get my equipment and meet you two out the front.”

 

 

They spotted the triple-changer easily. It would have been difficult to miss him, really, the behemoth stuck out like a disjointed thumb amongst the greens and browns of the landscape.

Luck was still with them, too, as Astrotrain was in his locomotive form with his entrance gaping open.

Wheeljack wondered momentarily why that was, but wasted no more time on suppositions and activated the immobiliser. The three of them surrounded the solitary Decepticon, the beam shooting out straight to strike the triple-changer, immobilising the surprised Decepticon mid alarmed shout.

Astrotrain instantly greyed out. Not quite the grey-white of death, but a shade close enough to be disturbing. Wheeljack handed the machine carefully to Ratchet, who, he noticed, gingerly put it down on the ground. Perceptor, hovering at his elbow, seemed to hesitate before following him up the ramp into Astrotrain’s passenger cavity. Wheeljack couldn’t fault him his apprehension. It wasn’t everyday that such lengths had to be reached to remove a virus. And, to be honest, interfacing with Percy wasn’t really something he had ever seriously considered, and he had no idea how it was going to alter their friendship.

“Hey,” he said, catching Perceptor’s arm as he moved to go past him. “Jus’ actin’, yeah?”

Perceptor met his gaze squarely. The arm beneath Wheeljack’s hand was strong and steady. The scientist may have had his trepidations about the situation, but he also had a lot of strength that was always underappreciated. Secretly, Wheeljack felt put at ease by it.

“Yes,” the red mech told him; “We are but performing a facsimile of the photoplay.”

Wheeljack relaxed his grip on Perceptor’s arm. “It’ll feel real, though,” he warned.

“Yes,” Perceptor said again; “It is required to.”

“Percy?’

“Yes?”

“I…”

“Will you two get a move on?!” a voice bellowed from outside. “Less talking, more interfacing! You’ve got just under two breems before Astrotrain returns to normal!”

“Slag,” Wheeljack hissed. “You ready?”

“Dubiously.”

They removed their unnecessary armour quickly, stripping each other of scopes, and launchers, tossing the last carelessly towards the back of the train. They didn’t have the time to be careful, assuming their positions across from each other in the deceptively large space, Perceptor’s legs spread and Wheeljack sitting demurely, half turned and leaning against the wall. Meeting Perceptor’s optics over his shoulder, making sure the other was in position; Wheeljack retracted his mask, nodded with a quick forward jerk and activated the rewrite.

The sensation was strange, like an obscure static tingle at the base of his helm, but he quickly pushed it to the back of his awareness as Perceptor shifted across from him, metal grating against metal distractingly.

Wheeljack did his best to follow his female counterpart’s actions in the video clip; looking away and attempting to not stare at the mech across from him. But, as also prompted by the video, Perceptor’s own actions didn’t allow that to continue for very long. The sound of shifting metal inevitably drew his gaze toward him.

Perceptor’s optics were bright in the dim interior of the Decepticon triple-changer, one of his pedes was up on the seat, knee bent to the side, hand down between his legs and fingers stroking over the smooth black plating. His optics were focused on Wheeljack’s face brazenly, and Wheeljack, Primus help him, shouldn’t have found it as stimulating as he, luckily, did.

_Just actin’_ , he reminded himself. _Just actin’_. But tell that to his suddenly interested receptors.

Perceptor leaned back casually, fingers moving up, down, up, down over that smooth bulge of metal in long, fluid strokes. He spread his legs further, sitting comfortably back against the wall of the train, not bothered in the least by Wheeljack’s obviously startled stare at his fondling.

“Where’re you going?” he asked nonchalantly, and Primus, Wheeljack didn’t know Percy’s vocals could go that low, or that he could even speak like that.

“Um,” Wheeljack gaped, then, suddenly embarrassed, turned his head to the side. His optics though, traitorous and obedient as they were, flicked unerringly back to the mech across from him; unable, and not allowed, to keep from looking for too long. “Um, to… to the tower.”

“Uh-huh.” Perceptor lounged back further, fingertips rubbing _up, down, up, down_. “What’re you gonna do up there?”

“Uh,” Wheeljack swallowed nervously; “Meeting some friends.” His voice came out haltingly, and Perceptor, damn him, seemed amused, though the smile was part of the script.

“Gonna do some shopping?” he asked.

“Uh, y-yeah.” Wheeljack tried to drag his optics away again, but Perceptor made a noise, a cross between a sigh and a moan, and the sound of metal shifting yanked his stare straight back to the other mech as quick as lightning.

“Uh! Shopping is good,” Perceptor murmured, head twitching back and knee jolting to the side. His fingers, not going up and down anymore, were spread out wide like spiders legs, the flat of his hand in their place, clearly rubbing with more force. “Gonna... Mmm-yeah, gonna try on some clothes, honey?”

“M-maybe. I don’t know.”

“You should,” his head twitched back again, hips lurching up against his palm. Wheeljack pressed his own legs together, hard at the thigh, a tingle of anticipation starting to make its presence known in his chest.

“All those pretty dresses,” Perceptor was saying, leg swaying out with each upward rub; “And those tops. Halter necks? They’ll make your breasts look so good.”

“Um..”

Perceptor lifted his head, setting those bright optics squarely on Wheeljack. “You got pretty breasts, honey?” His gaze dropped, and Wheeljack’s optics obediently followed the other mech’s down to his chest plates. Of course there were no breasts there – mech or femme, neither model had need of mammary glands – but they were pretending, acting out a scenario. For the sake of the overwrite, today Wheeljack had some.

“I can’t see them, honey,” Perceptor said, and Wheeljack could feel that stare fixed on where the smooth mounds of flesh would be were he a human female. Directly behind his Autobot emblem that tingling turned into a burn. He thought he would have to force himself into arousal for this, but hearing Perceptor talk like that… sounding nothing like himself… well, his own reactions were unexpected. And damn it if the scientist couldn’t tell exactly what it was doing to him.

“Are they pretty? Can you show me?”

“Um…”

“Lemme see how pretty your breasts are.”

Oh, well… No turning back now. “O-okay.” Slowly, Wheeljack drew one of his fingers down the centre of his chest, mimicking the motion of unzipping a shirt. He carefully drew apart the sections of his armour protecting his central components, retracting them into his chest compartment, baring his internal circuits to someone who wasn’t a medic for the first time in a long, long time. His spark pulsed with heightened sensation and expectancy. He could feel the weight of Perceptor’s optics drilling into his naked components, and wow, if the act of exposing himself didn’t just turn that slow burn into an inferno.

“Beautiful,” Perceptor whispered; “Can you touch them for me, honey? Play with those pretty breasts of yours and let me see.” He leaned forward on his seat, pushing his pelvis forward into his rubbing hand. “Lemme see them, Pretty. Put them in your hands.”

Wheeljack’s fingers shook slightly when he brought them up – not a product of his acting skills at all – and at the first tentative touch against the nest of cables surrounding his spark casing he had to restrain himself from gasping in surprise. It felt good. Surprisingly good to be touching himself in that way. _So, so…_

“Good,” Perceptor crooned across from him. “Squeeze them, Pretty. I wanna see them pucker between your fingers. Wanna see them swell.”

Wheeljack did make a sound at this; his resonators flickering a pleasured violet light around the interior of the Decepticon, whimpering at the sensation of his own hands touching himself, kneading and squeezing at cables and housing units nestled in his chest.

“That’s it, Pretty. You’re a gorgeous thing, you are. Keep touching your pretty breasts, lemme hear that you like it.”

Wheeljack tossed his head back, squeezing his thighs tighter together. He moaned with pleasure, his own touches establishing rogue connections, sending bolts of static-laced current through his systems. Across from him he could hear the grinding of metal, and Perceptor crooned to him, vocaliser spitting out intermittent hisses of white noise as he spoke dirty, seductive words to him in a voice that Wheeljack would never have recognised as his.

“You’re so beautiful,” he was saying; “Those pretty breasts in your little hands. You’re making me so hard, Pretty. Can you see? Can you see how hard I am?”

“Yes,” Wheeljack moaned, finger flicking against a kinked cable. “Yes.” He could only imagine how it would look if Perceptor had a cone, but he remembered the video, and the man in that had been so stiff the tip of him had been pushing out of the top of his trousers, glans slick and swollen. “I can see.”

“It wants to touch you, honey. Wants to touch those pretty breasts of yours. You wanna put it between them? Let me slide in there and play?”

Wheeljack moaned at the question, on time, not a moment before or after he was supposed to, and nodded. “O-okay.”

He heard the scrape of Perceptor rising from his seat, and lifted his head from where he had been watching himself play with his own chest to watch the other mech cross the small distance between them.

“Oh, honey,” the scientist cooed, reaching out to touch him. “Lay back a little honey, that’s it.” Perceptor’s strong hands – grip steady, Wheeljack noted – guided him back into a supine position, hips on the edge of the seat, back curved into a smooth c-shape. His own hands slipped up, sliding over Perceptor’s thighs as the scientist climbed over and straddled him.

“Like this?” he asked, the weight of the other mech settling over his abdomen.

Perceptor’s fingers brushed over the wires and cables of his open chest. “Just like that,” he said; “You’re such a good girl.”

Wheeljack arched against those hands, his chest rising to meet Perceptor’s fingers, his abdomen brushing against the apex of the other mech’s spread thighs. “Oh!” he cried out.

“Be a very good girl, honey,” Perceptor said, taking a hold of Wheeljack’s hands; “And keep touching those pretty breasts of yours. I’m gonna let my cock play with them now, okay?”

Wheeljack’s intakes were stuttering, making it sound like he was panting. “Okay.”

Perceptor took only a nano-klik to position himself, rising up onto his knees and then he was rocking forward, pressing the smooth bulge of his pelvic armour into Wheeljack’s open chest, stroking it up and down against the components inside with smooth, slow cants of his hips.

“Oh, honey, that feels so good,” he told him. Wheeljack could only gasp in response; the sensation of that part of Perceptor’s body sliding over cables nestled against his spark casing made him arch and shudder into the slight pressure. It did feel good… too good… oh Primus…

Fingers on his face, lifting it up from where he was watching the merging of armour and cables, brought it to meet the gaze of the mech on him, above him, rocking into him. Those optics were so bright, and Wheeljack knew that Perceptor was feeling just as out of depth as he was; just as helpless to the scenario, though the thumb pushing against the derma of his lips falsely spoke otherwise of control and desire.

He parted his lips, sucking the appendage into his mouth, caressing it with his glossa as it slid past the hard ridges of his denta. Perceptor muttered a sweet endearment above him, thrusting his thumb in deeper, rubbing it against the insides of his mouth just as he was rubbing his groin into the insides of his chest. The ridges of his armour nudged thick cables and fuel hoses, coolant arteries –rigid and sensitive to pressure – enveloped Perceptor’s invasion on all sides. And deeper, if he pushed just a little further into his chest, Perceptor would touch the casing that held the core of his existence directly. It was bad enough that his movements rubbed the ribbed fuel hoses against the chamber; Wheeljack was barely keeping his whimpers in check, sucking furiously on the thumb in his mouth to keep them from emerging.

“Oh, yeah. That’s it, Pretty. That’s it.”

It really shouldn’t have been feeling as good as it was, all the teasing and Perceptor’s alien, twisted voice speaking such strange and human things to him. But he was glad for it, Primus was he appreciative. That either of them would be willing to go this far for the other…

“My cock looks so good there, doesn’t it, Pretty?”

Then the teasing touches were taken away, and Wheeljack choked off a protestation as the thumb was also withdrawn. It stroked over his lips, and Wheeljack flicked his glossa out to touch it when it swiped past.

“I wanna fuck you now, honey. Can I fuck you?”

That word, just that word alone – human, derogatory – almost broke his composure. He nodded, not certain whether that stutter in his vocaliser was entirely an act anymore. “Y-yes. Yes, sir.”

It was arousing, wrong, and though he knew he could stop this anytime by just getting up and leaving, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Please.”

Perceptor slid off of his thighs, taking a step back and helping him to stand. “Come over here, honey. You ever done this before?”

Wheeljack nodded weakly. He allowed Perceptor to guide him to the centre of Astrotrain’s passenger compartment, the scientists grip gentle on his wrists, leading his hands to grasp at the stirrups – strange that the Decepticon allowed them to remain – that hung from the ceiling. “Hold tight, and don’t let go. Watch me. Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Wheeljack nodded, and Perceptor slid his way down the engineer’s body, nuzzling his face into his open chest, mouthing at the taut cables he found there. Wheeljack didn’t have to bite back his gasps now, and he allowed them to rise from his throat, spilling from his open mouth with the force of his revving intakes.

Perceptor’s mouth trailed down, face rubbing into his abdomen, fingers tight against his hips, slipping down to his thighs as he sunk onto his knees, urging Wheeljack to open his legs.

He spread them wide, adjusting his balance, and Perceptor with his gentle touch against his hips and thighs, mimicked the removal of underwear that once again, Wheeljack didn’t have but was required to pretend he did. Touches against his pedes told him to lift his feet one after the other, then Perceptor’s fingers were back on his hips, his face pressed up between his legs, nose firm against his crotch.

“You’re even pretty down here,” Perceptor said, and the vibrations from his vocaliser trembled through the alloy of his armour. “You smell delicious.”

“P-please don’t,” Wheeljack asked. He tightened his grip on the stirrups at the look Perceptor gave him.

“You don’t want me to taste you?”

Wheeljack shook his head.

“Too bad,” Perceptor pouted. “I bet you taste even better.”

He rose up, chassis rubbing closely against Wheeljack’s. He captured one of Wheeljack’s legs, the engineer shifting his weight obediently, wrapping it up and over Perceptor’s hip. There was a quiet hiss of hydraulics as the scientist’s chest parted, exposing his internal components. The smaller hiss that followed – the sound of his spark casing moving forward – sent a sharp throb of desire and trepidation through Wheeljack, who, despite his uncertainty was determined, and allowed his casing to do the same.

“You ready, Pretty?” Perceptor asked him, whispering low and seductive into his audio receptors. “You tell me that you’re ready and I’ll slide into you so deep you’ll feel me on your tongue. Come on, Pretty, tell me you want me in you. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me!”

Perceptor’s croon developed an edge of desperation to it, and the barely shielded energy from his spark was stimulating Wheeljack’s to distraction.

“Y-yes!” he told him. “I want you in me.” He struggled to keep the timer in his forethoughts, he couldn’t be off-beat for any of this, and lowered the register of his voice a fraction. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Good girl,” Perceptor smirked, and with a smooth roll of his body crushed their chests together.

Wheeljack’s head swanned forwards, a cry of pleasure falling from his open mouth, fingers tightening on the stirrups and body bowing with the force of their energies intermingling. His leg tightened around Perceptor’s hip, the scientist’s hips shunting up into his although all the action was flaring between their chests. Each heave from below however, bounced his body up, rocking him onto the toe of his balancing pede so that he had to grip onto the stirrups to stay upright. His spark resonated to Perceptor’s, their cells grating with each push upright that pulled them partially out of the others field. It was difficult not to cry out further. He hadn’t interfaced with another in a long… long time.

“Can you speak dirty to me, pretty? It would make it so good,” Perceptor crooned into his receptor. “Can you beg for it? You would make me so happy if you would beg for it, pretty.” Perceptor groaned, low and rumbling, with a sharp edge of need that sliced into Wheeljack’s arousal like a vibro-scalpel. “Beg for it, pretty. Beg. Beg.”

“Uhn,” Wheeljack threw his head back, pressing the side of his mouth against Perceptor’s helm. “Please,” he moaned; “please, sir, give me more. I-I want more.”

“What do you want more of?”

“Your cock. Please, sir, your c-cock feels so good. More! Please!”

Perceptor stilled his movements, pulling away slightly. He dropped his hands from where they supported Wheeljack at waist and hip. His bright optics fixed themselves squarely on Wheeljack’s, and in a tone that brooked no argument said; “Take it, then. Work yourself on me, pretty. Show me how much you want it.”

With a low cry Wheeljack wrapped himself around the scientist; his supporting leg lifting from the floor to curl around Perceptor’s other hip. Using the stirrups to lift himself, he arched his back, pulling away from Perceptor just enough to make his spark ache with loss, then thrust himself back down.

Connection.

Perceptor grunted, hands coming swiftly up to grasp Wheeljack by his thighs, his fingers gripping tightly just to have something to hold onto while Wheeljack lifted and thrust himself down again.

“Ah!” Perceptor cried out, “Ah, that’s it baby, give it to me!”

Wheeljack moaned low and static-laced, and folded over Perceptor’s shoulder, gyrating his pelvis against the smooth edge of the scientists while crushing their chassis together, spark containment cells rubbing against each other with small, quick strokes. His chest felt on fire, foreign energy coursing through his systems with his own, surging with increasing intensity. He didn’t know how long he was going to be able to stave off overload for.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot!” Perceptor shouted. “Ah, ride me, pretty. Do you like it? Do you like it, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Wheeljack moaned. “Oh yeah,” and there was really no denying it. It felt so, so good. Too good. He was losing control. He could feel it slipping out of his grasp with every pulse of energy and rev of their systems.

“What d’ya want? Tell me, tell me what ya want.”

Wheeljack arched, tossing his head back. “I want… I want you.. t-to..”

“To what?”

“Fuck me!”

And Perceptor did. The hands on Wheeljack’s thighs came up to his hips, and on his next rise yanked him down hard into the upward thrust of his pelvis. “This what you want, pretty?” Perceptor growled, driving his chest up into Wheeljack’s, forcing a powerful surge of his spark energy coursing into him. “Is it, huh?”

“Oh, God! Yes!”

“Uh, your pussy’s _so wet_ …”

Wheeljack was holding onto the stirrups with all of his remaining strength. Perceptor was battering away at his body with crotch and chest, aggressive and cajoling; static-laced groans with intermittent lewd comments and the clank and hiss of overheated chassis filling the otherwise silent interior of Astrotrain.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” Wheeljack moaned. It was getting hard to remember to speak his lines. He had known it would be pleasant, but the sheer extent of it was overwhelming… was… was… “Ah! _Ahhhh!_ Oh! _Fuck me!_ ”

“That’s it, pretty. Uh! _Again_. Say it _again_.”

“Oh yeah, baby, fuck, _fuck me!_ ”

“So hot, pretty. You should see yourself… ridin’ my cock… uh, so good… uh, pretty… you want it harder, do you? Tell me, tell me…”

“Yes, yes…”

“Yes, what?”

“Harder! _Harder!_ ”

Perceptor was almost throwing him off they were jolting against each other so hard. It was furious, it was desperate. It couldn’t last. It wasn’t allowed to last. Wheeljack ached with the need to let go, and wanted to sob at the wrenching that resulted from him holding back. He was full with Perceptor – he was bursting at the seams, and no doubt there was just as much of himself coursing through the scientist. It was hard, so hard to keep holding on, to keep starving off the overload that pulsed and shivered just out of reach.

“Oh, God!”

Any moment now. Oh, good Primus, he asked, let it be any moment now. The chronometer was still ticking down, and the time was drawing nearer, but for his aching spark and shuddering body it felt almost too long to bear.

“Yeah, pretty, yeah… you ready, honey? You ready for me?”

Wheeljack tightened his grip on the stirrups, thighs clenching around the bucking width of Perceptor’s hips. He was ready. More than ready. “Yea- _uhn!_ ” he gasped. “Give it to me.”

“I’m gonna come, pretty.”

“M-me too.”

The chronometer gave a little warning beep.

“Hgn-ah!”

Perceptor jolted, his spark flaring blindingly between them, and Wheeljack arched and threw his mouth open in a silent cry as Perceptor’s overload was shunted out and into him. He shook, the stirrups creaking in his grip, chassis rattling and threatening to dislodge him from his perch.

He shouted as the first deluge of raw energy dissipated, only to gasp as the next one pulsed through him, not as strong, but the sensory echo of the primary overload, passed from himself to Perceptor and back again in a slowly dissipating loop.

He fell forward as the final pulses left him, fizzing out between their chassis, fingers releasing their death grip on the stirrups to let his arms slump down over Perceptor’s shoulders. He palmed the back of the scientist’s helm feebly, drawing his head up to kiss him. It was wet, sloppy and lazy, and Wheeljack couldn’t help but feel that it was the wrong thing to do. Something like a kiss shouldn’t belong in a film like this one. It was too… personal.

“Mmmm… such a good girl,” Perceptor crooned, chassis shivering against Wheeljack’s. “Such a good, _bad_ girl. What will your friends think?”

 

 

Silence. And the internal click that signaled the end of the overwrite. Perceptor couldn’t hear it, but it was very loud for Wheeljack, who sunk down against the scientist’s chassis with a convoluted mix of relief, trepidation and sorrow. Processors whirred quietly, his systems doing their job in sorting the new information into its place, and if Wheeljack concentrated just enough, he could almost feel the old video being replaced.

Against him Perceptor was holding himself very still. He was just as unsure whether the new file would take, no doubt – the whole exercise had been a method of trial. If it worked then they had a formula they could follow confidently. If not… Wheeljack held back a shudder, pressing his face into the side of Perceptor’s neck. If it didn’t take, well, they’d just have to try again.

Perceptor patted his back slowly, as if hesitant, and Wheeljack felt his hand stutter along his back struts.

“Has our hypothesis proven correct?” he asked quietly.

Wheeljack felt inexplicably reassured to hear the scientist’s normal tones colouring his words. “I dunno. Seems to’ve.”

He pulled away, Perceptor relieving his grip on his hips to let him slide his legs down and stand. He closed his chest compartment hastily, feeling suddenly embarrassed. He heard the hiss from Perceptor’s chassis as he did the same. They stepped away from each other, meeting the others optics tentatively, and Perceptor stepped back further, hands hanging limp at his sides.

“Wheeljack?”

“Yeah, Perce?”

“I…”

Ratchet’s bellow from outside cut off whatever Perceptor was going to say sharply.

“GET YOUR AFTS OUT OF THERE! SOMEONE’S COMING!”

It was the catalyst to move, and Wheeljack ran to the fore of Astrotrain to hastily grab his launcher. Perceptor was already out by the time he turned around, and he moved quickly to follow.

Ratchet was waiting impatiently for him outside, and when he appeared at the door the medic grabbed his arm and dragged him from the Decepticon triple-changer roughly. “Get a move on! Astrotrain wasn’t alone.”

“Frag!” Wheeljack mentally kicked himself for not checking before hand. “Where’s the Immobiliser?”

“Percy has it.”

“And Percy?”

“Where we should be. Come on!”

Wheeljack stumbled a little as he was dragged along behind the longer strides of Ratchet, his pede catching on an exposed root and almost tripping him. Behind them he heard the surprised shout of a Decepticon – he wasn’t sure who – demanding them to stop. There was the mandatory blitz of badly-aimed blaster shot, and then the sound of pursuit ceased. Perceptor appeared suddenly just ahead of them, and comm’d them both to follow him towards the logging track they came in on.

“Did you guys finish in time?” Ratchet asked once they were on the road, the transformed Perceptor sitting in his back end and Wheeljack bumping along just behind.

“Yep,” Wheeljack replied. “We’d just disconnected when you yelled.”

“It took?” Ratchet’s voice was lightly strained, as though trying to disguise his worry.

“I think so. We’ll check when we get back.”

“Percy?”

“I believe that we succeeded. We cannot be certain until we have run diagnostics and ascertained the results conclusively, however.”

“Ahuh. And are either of you injured?”

“Nope.”

“I am undamaged.”

“Good. Now I don’t know about you two, but I’m dying for some energon. What say we pick up the speed a little?”

 

 

The overwrite took.

Wheeljack supposed that he didn’t really need Ratchet crawling around in his meta to verify that. All it took was the combination of two words to determine their success. Ratchet could repeat them over and over until his vocaliser shorted out, but it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. Still, the medic insisted, and so he conceded to being plugged into again.

The video file wasn’t running, not the old one or the new one he’d created with Perceptor. The tags were not accessing anything. ‘Train’ was completely erased. The other, still in use with some of the other video files, could not be dumped until completely neutralised, but one of its links was permanently gone, and for that Wheeljack was grateful.

They’d found a system that worked. He only wished that he could feel a little happier about having to use his friends to make it happen.

 

 

Astrotrain, later, couldn’t shake off the feeling that something really bad had happened while he had been frozen.

Rumble wouldn’t even talk about it, and it wasn’t until a strange video file started making the rounds on the Nemesis that Astrotrain had any idea how bad it really was.

_Pornography?_

Someone was going to get slagged.


	5. The Pool Bot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet gets handsy and Bluestreak gets wet. Wheeljack learns new things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: fluid kinks abound in this chapter.

Perceptor was late.

Wheeljack would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he was concerned. Perceptor was seldom late for anything, and if he was, it was never _this_ late. At least, not for the vorns that he’d known him.

Ratchet was over at his desk, fiddling with several somethings with what Wheeljack could only guess was annoyance, leaving him sitting alone on the berth at the other side of the room. He twiddled his thumbs, swung his legs back and forth, watched Ratchet mutter to himself and slam things around on his desk, and thought about the things that needed thinking about.

Like why Perceptor wasn’t there.

They needed him. He needed to bounce ideas off of him. They needed to sort out what they were going to do for the next scenario; there were difficulties that had to be worked through, and another location to be puzzled out. Props were necessary this time, and Wheeljack thought it might be helpful to have a second mech backing him up with his choice of his next partner.

Ratchet jerked, and slammed something he held down viciously. “He’s not coming,” he growled.

Wheeljack flashed his optics. “He could just be caught up with somethin’. Give him some more time.”

“I said he’s not coming,” Ratchet repeated. “He just comm’d me.”

“Oh.”

Wheeljack couldn’t deny that he felt a little disheartened. But, if the scientist wasn’t able to make it, there had to be a good reason why. “Oh, well, guess we do it ourselves today.” He shifted around on the berth. “So, how d’ya want me?”

“Just lie back and try to relax.” Ratchet crossed the small distance to stand at the head of the berth, waiting patiently while Wheeljack arranged himself into something resembling comfortable. Or, as comfortable as he could be considering the circumstances and how much he was going to hate the next part. His fingers twitched compulsively at the beep the monitor emitted upon being switched on. The slide of the cables over the bench had him tensing up in preparation. Wheeljack managed to catch Ratchet's optics as he leaned over him to insert the cable.

“I'll be as quick as I can,” Ratchet assured him.

No matter how quick Ratchet would profess to be, it would never be quick enough for Wheeljack's liking, and yet, not before too much time had passed, Ratchet withdrew.

“No change from yesterday,” he declared.

“That's a relief!”

“Hm. Let's hope it stays that way.”

Wheeljack sat up, swinging his legs around on the berth. He leaned up and reached past Ratchet, tapping at the monitor and bringing up the first video from the initial infection. The one he'd been subjected to when Bluestreak had walked in on him. Oh, and the irony of that.

“Let's get this thing underway.”

They watched the video clip the entire way through twice just to familiarise themselves with the pacing and the props that were required. Wheeljack could tell that Ratchet was impatient to learn who Wheeljack had selected for this re-enactment, making comments about height, shape and personality in relation to the part whoever it was would have to play. Wheeljack hedged them every time, knowing it was going to play on Ratchet's infamously short temper. Finally, as Wheeljack had anticipated, Ratchet grew annoyed enough to outright ask.

Wheeljack's answer of Bluestreak clearly surprised him.

“Ohhhkay.”

“You disagree?”

“No. No, nothing like that.”

“Ratchet.”

“It's your choice, 'Jack. I can see why he's ideal for this scenario, though. Almost perfect, really.”

Wheeljack frowned. There was something he was missing. “But?”

“No buts.” Ratchet shook his head. He met Wheeljack's optics directly, letting him see that there wasn't any doubt in them. Not about the validity of Wheeljack's choice in partner, anyway. “I'm just concerned about the effects this sort of thing might have on him.”

“You're thinking it might be too much.”

“Yes.” Ratchet let out a hefty circulation of air. His hand came up to rub over his helm. “Perceptor isn't a young mech by any stretch of the imagination, and I initially thought that he would handle yesterday's... thing... rather well.”

Wheeljack nodded slowly. “But he's not here.”

“No, he's not.”

“You think he's ashamed?”

“I won't pretend to know what's going through his head right now. I might just be making a Dweller out of a bolt-bat, however, but... never mind.”

Wheeljack dropped his optics from the frame of his frustrated friend. He couldn't pretend that it didn't bother him that Perceptor wasn't there, and Ratchet was making sense, unfortunately. Though Wheeljack hated the thought that it could be true, Perceptor's absence spoke a truth louder than Ratchet's suppositions.

“Anyway,” Ratchet cut into his thoughts. “There's something we need to sort out before you go and ask the pool bot if he wouldn't mind an unusual interface with you.”

Wheeljack's optics were drawn back to the medic who was fiddling with the controls of the monitor with a frown twisting the edges of his lips. “An' what's that?”

“This part here.” He tapped at a time stamp, about a breem in. “From here on in there's a lot of stimulation required at the apex of the thighs.”

The video skipped ahead to the part in question, playing over for the third time on the large screen the young human male dipping his head between the females legs. Tongue and fingers could clearly be seen thrusting in and out of her vagina. _Pussy_ , Wheeljack corrected himself. They called it a pussy in pornography. It didn't look all that interesting to him, but the woman who was receiving it seemed to be having a very good time of it, if all the whining and breathless panting was anything to go by.

“It's clearly doin' somethin' for her,” he commented.

Ratchet turned from the monitor to give Wheeljack a questioning stare. “Are you sensitive down there?” he asked him.

Wheeljack’s optics flickered. “I-I dunno. Never tried playin’ with myself there, so…”

Ratchet nodded. “All right. Back on the berth, then.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Lie back, Wheeljack.” He repeated. “I don’t know how easy it will be for you to fake excitement well enough to fool the program, so best we find out now if it’ll work or not, hmm?”

Wheeljack fidgeted for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, when you put it like that,” he replied, and slid around onto the examination table.

“Knees up,” Ratchet ordered, tapping against the side of Wheeljack’s leg. “And slide down until you’re almost hanging off the end. That’s it.” Ratchet grabbed a nearby box stool and sat on it at the foot of the berth. “Can you part your legs a little more? Thanks.”

Wheeljack stared up at the ceiling of the med bay and tried not to think too much about what Ratchet was doing between his legs, but the gentle touches and the soft clicking of shifting parts was distracting.

He flinched a little when the coverings over his groin were lifted off; the cool air from the room uncomfortable against his warm cables and sensors.

“You okay?” Ratchet asked quietly.

“Mmhm,” Wheeljack answered.

“I’m going to touch you now. Tell me how you feel when I touch each one, okay?”

“Gotcha.”

“This one?”

Wheeljack’s optics flickered at the sensation of Ratchet’s touch and energy field. “Pressure. It’s cold. Maybe tickles a little.”

“Ahuh.” There was another cool touch. “This one?”

“The same.”

“And this?”

Wheeljack’s left leg jolted. “Uh!” he uttered in surprise, resonators stuttering yellow. “That…” he cycled a gasp of air; “That was interestin’.”

“So when I do this?”

Wheeljack’s entire frame shuddered, his hips lifting off of the berth and up into the press of Ratchet’s hand. “Nn!” He gripped compulsively at the edges of the berth, legs parting further around the touch. “ _Feels good…_ ” he strained.

“Okay, that one’s fine. This one?”

“Mmm… not as good,” though a delicious shudder ran through him like a small rush of mildly potent energon. Ratchet chuckled at the analogy when he told him, then touched another area that made him grunt in surprise.

He could almost hear the smirk in Ratchet’s voice when he mentioned his responses.

“I suppose that despite us not having the same orifices as the Humans, we do have sensory bundles in similar areas.” He said. “This is ultimately the reason why the plugs in the younger mechs work so well. Are you alright?”

Wheeljack choked back a gasp. “Mm… fine. ‘S good.”

“And?”

Wheeljack lifted his head, resonators flashing purple once as Ratchet pulled his hand away from between the mechanic’s legs. “An’ I think it could work.”

“Could work?” Ratchet gave him a pointed stare, and Wheeljack hastily corrected himself.

“Will work,” he said. “As long as Blue touches the same places and has an energy field.”

“Well, he’s not dead so I’m certain he’s got the last one.”

“Then it’ll work.”

Ratchet stood, and Wheeljack pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“You sure about Bluestreak, Wheeljack?” the medic asked, leaning against the berth beside him.

Wheeljack nodded. “I haven’t talked to him about it, yet, but he’s more mature than the others around his age.” He pointed out. “He’s had his Presentation not too long ago, so he’s not a younglin’ anymore, and I’m _certain_ he’s interfaced before.”

Ratchet gave him a sore look. “I don’t think I want to know _how_ you know that.”

“Rusted,” Wheeljack teased, singsong.

“Voyeur,” Ratchet threw back.

“Me?”

“I've heard the stories.”

“Gross exaggerations.”

Ratchet chuckled. “If you say so.”

 

 

It was all well and good to be specifying that Bluestreak was who he was hoping would help him. It was another thing, and perhaps a lot less well and maybe not so good, getting Bluestreak to agree to it.

As Ratchet had purposefully not said, Bluestreak was incredibly young.

Wheeljack was stupidly nervous. It was an unusual sensation for him. The last time he'd felt this particularly shaky had been before the onset of the war, when he had still been operating under the naïve assumption that the unrest wouldn't last long and the only thing worrying him was whether he would pass his finals or blow the lab and his assessor halfway to Iacon. He didn't know what to do with it, how to nullify it, and just his luck that the best time to find Bluestreak would be in the commissary at the end of his shift.

He fought against the urge to fidget as he stood just inside the door, scanning the amassed 'bots for the familiar red blaze on the helm. It didn't take long to spot him. Far right table, near the jukebox they hadn't bothered to replace since Jazz had installed it in the late 1980's, his pedes tapping along to Cyndi Lauper and a strong bass line. He looked a little bit morose, youthful face sort of sagging from coming down off of a long shift, but he seemed to perk up when he noticed Wheeljack approaching. His cube was immediately relegated to his elbow and he turned a bright smile his way.

“Wheeljack, hi! Are you alright? Haven't seen you since the explosion. By the look of you I'd say that Ratchet managed to fix you up good as new. Isn't he amazing? We're so lucky to have him on our side.”

It was flattering, really, that Bluestreak had been so concerned, but his usual passionate rambling wasn't helping to calm Wheeljack's nerves any. They only seemed to spur him into greater heights of insecurity, actually. What if he was making a mistake? Bluestreak was so painfully, blatantly young. It wasn't anything like the age gap between Blue and Kup – Wheeljack wasn't that old, but yeah, it was pretty bad. Wheeljack felt a little bit like a cradle-snatcher.

“Yeah, yeah, we are. Ratchet's great. Hi Blue, how are you?”

And, oh Primus, he did. He just gave Blue a little wave. Wheeljack had to restrain himself from covering his face with one of his hands. This was ridiculous. He was not a sparkling in the nursery attempting to make friends here. He already was Bluestreak's friend. What on Earth and Cybertron was he doing making himself so stupid over it all? It was only a small series of questions that he needed to ask him. He'd done harder things back in his university days.

Bluestreak smiled embarrassedly, but Wheeljack didn't know if it was over his own rambling, or Wheeljack's pathetic wave. “I'm fine. Good, yeah. Just taking my ration,” he lifted the energon cube to gesture with. “Are you not drinking?”

Wheeljack shook in the negative.

Bluestreak's head quirked inquisitively to the side. “I guess you wanted to see me, then? You haven't sat down and you've got that look on your face.”

“Yeah. I did. Can we go somewhere else? It's sort of private.”

And just like that the cheer in Bluestreak's countenance shifted to worry. It made Wheeljack feel terrible.

“Sure. My quarters okay, or is there somewhere else you had in mind?”

“Your place is fine.”

 

 

“So.”

“So, yeah. Uh,” Wheeljack flicked his thumb against the underside of his right resonator, a nervous habit he thought he'd gotten rid of vorns ago. “Primus, this is awkward.”

Bluestreak's quarters were a study in contrasts; one half clean and tidy and the other tossed into chaotic disorder. It wasn't hard to guess which half was Bluestreak's. Wheeljack had the working hypothesis that the state of one's living spaces reflected the personality of the one living in them.

“Is everything all right?” Bluestreak asked. Wheeljack's optics flicked over to him from where they were inspecting the small collection of busted weapons arranged on Bluestreak's shelf. The young mech had a small frown worrying the panes of his face. He was standing almost at attention. Wheeljack wondered if he was even aware he was doing it.

“Yeah, no. Not really.” Wheeljack steeled himself. Bluestreak looked increasingly worried, and Wheeljack was going to fry something internal if he didn't release his nervousness the best way he knew how. “I've got a problem, Blue, and I was hoping you could help me with it.”

“Sure. Of course. How can I help you? What do you need me to do?”

“I need...” Wheeljack trailed off. For some reason the rest of the words stalled in his vocaliser.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to...zzt.” It just wasn't happening. Wheeljack growled, curling his hands into fists at his sides. He tried again. “I need...”

Bluestreak's face softened. “It's okay. Take your time. It must be a big deal if it's this hard to get it out-”

“I need you to frag me!”

Startled silence. Then; “What?” Bluestreak's strangled-sounding voice echoed strangely in the room.

“No, no,” Wheeljack quickly backtracked, hands moving to placate even as his voice, suddenly free, took the opportunity to run away from his mouth. “Interface. I need ya to interface with me. I got this virus, you see, an' I can't get rid of it until I've replaced all the files with replica files an'.. an' sheesh, c'n I sit down?”

Bluestreak flapped a hand at him, somehow managing to gesture at his berth in amongst the strange curlicues and odd flailing he was doing. His mouth was opening and closing while he visibly fought for something to say in reply to Wheeljack's bold request. It took almost a full klik for him to formulate a response.

“I'm sorry, Sir, but... did you just ask me to-to interface with you?”

Wheeljack blanched. “Please, Blue, don't call me 'Sir'.”

“Sorry! I'm just... confused. Why do you need me for this? You said something about a virus?”

“Take a seat. It's a bit of a long, confusing conversation.”

“Sounds like it,” Bluestreak murmured as he sunk down onto the berth beside Wheeljack, an arms length of space between them. He recycled air noisily. “All right. Okay. So?”

Wheeljack felt the huff of mirth leave him along with a significant heft of his nervousness. Now explaining things was something he was good at.

“So. When you found me in my lab the other day? That explosion knocked down my shields for a bit, and I somehow managed to contract an internet virus. Now I'm stuck trying to get it out of my systems.”

Bluestreak looked concerned again. “You're having trouble removing it?”

Wheeljack nodded. “Yeah. It's integrated itself pretty firmly in there. Pornography, can you believe it?”

Bluestreak's face twisted into a moue of unease. “You said something about replacing files with replicas?”

“Yeah, uh,” He cleared his vocaliser again. “That's where I was hopin' you'd come in. You see, the only way to erase the videos is to replace the originals with my own version. Close enough in type so that the virus won't recognise the difference. It's become a little necessary to do so, too, because this virus has started interfering with my basic functions.”

“Not good.”

“No, not particularly. I can't drink energon anymore.”

“ _Really_ not good.”

“Yeah.”

“So, um...” Bluestreak fidgeted a little. “What made you seek out me to help?”

Wheeljack smiled beneath his mask. “You fit the specs, Blue. Look, I can tell you're uneasy about this. If you don't want to help, that's okay, but before you turn me down completely, come with me to see Ratchet? At least see what you're sayin' no to.”

Bluestreak frowned. “I wasn't going to say no,” he said, sounding a little put out.

“You weren't?”

“No!”

And before he knew it, Wheeljack was laughing. He wasn't sure where it had come from, or why it was being so persistent, but he was hunched over and giggling at his knees before he became aware of Bluestreak sniggering alongside him.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“To Ratchet?”

Wheeljack nodded, lips twitching behind his mask. “To Ratchet.”

 

 

A joor later found Wheeljack striding through the corridors of the Ark, feeling far more at ease with the situation. The issue with Perceptor was still niggling at him, but he did his best to cast those worries out of his mind. He'd address Perceptor's absence later, once the scenario with Bluestreak was completed and he had time to think beyond scripts and props and possible, probable outcomes.

Right now he had to concentrate on finding a certain someone who could build a certain something so that he and Bluestreak could do a small plethora of certain other somethings _on_ it.

There. Ahead of him. Just the mech he was looking for.

“Hey, Grapple! Got a job for ya!”

The taller mech turned when Wheeljack called out his name, greeting the fellow engineer with a smile and a question.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a chair that I need made fairly urgently. Can you get it done within the next Earth day or so?”

“I don’t see why not? Is it complicated?”

Wheeljack flapped his hand. “Nah, simple, really, it’s like one of them Human sun lounge-thingies only it needs to be malleable at the back for the support of door wings.”

“Door wings?”

“It’s a gift for Blue.”

Grapple smiled. “Ahhh…. Sure. You have the plans there?”

Wheeljack nodded, handing over the datapad. “Sorry I didn’t have time to transfer them to a filoplate.”

“That’s fine. I’ve plenty. I’ll get to work now, if you want, seeming I’ve got nothing else planned.”

“Thanks. Just buzz me when you’re done.”

“Will do.”

One more thing down, and a couple of others to go. For now, however, it was off to his shift at the lab and then back to his berth to get some recharge. The next orn was going to be busy.

 

 

Bluestreak looked nervous.

“You ready?” Wheeljack asked him quietly.

“I'm not sure.”

Ratchet came over and crouched at Wheeljack's feet. A nudge against his inner thigh had him spreading his legs, and Ratchet proceeded to fiddle with the plating of his pelvis.

Bluestreak carefully didn't watch. Wheeljack thought it was a little charming, considering that in a few breems time he was going to be putting his mouth down there.

“You'll be fine,” he told him confidently.

A sharp tug from Ratchet's fingers threw Wheeljack's balance off a little. He reached out to steady himself against Bluestreak who was gnawing on his lip. “I hope so,” he mumbled around it.

Ratchet's firm voice, slightly muffled, drifted up from between Wheeljack's legs. “If you stick to the script there shouldn't be any problems.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“All set?” Wheeljack asked, looking down at the top of Ratchet's helm. A tap on the panel from the CMO's red fingers and it slid closed with a quiet 'snick'.

“All set.”

“Right. Let's get this underway.”

The pool hadn't taken too long to find. Beachcomber had been a great help in suggesting possible locations when they had told him what they were looking for, even if he didn't know _why_ they were needing an area with significant foliage and a small man-made lake with a patch of cleared land to one side. Such specifics should have made the site impossible to find, but they were spoilt by a choice of three. After significant investigation by Bluestreak, this particular one was selected. Wheeljack had to admit - it was a rather nice spot. Isolated, warm. The gentle breeze was particularly pleasant.

It hadn't taken too long to build the house on the clear patch. They had kit sets to spare thanks to the outfit on Cybertron. Simple things that almost made themselves. With a few joors of tweaking and some painting there now stood an accurate replica of the house in the video file, just slightly off to the side of the lake. The lake itself was a clear, crystalline blue. A few leaves and plant detritus drifted on its surface. Perfect.

Bluestreak was already taking up his position at the lake side. A long pole with a net on the end to scoop up the plant matter balanced on his right shoulder. His faceplates were rigid, held firm with what Wheeljack could only guess was determination. Feeling an upsurge of familiar concern and indecision, Wheeljack was about to cross over to him when Bluestreak turned and met his gaze, apparently reaching a decision. A quick grin was thrown over to him along with a thumbs up, and Wheeljack, momentarily startled by the gesture, could only smile back and return the gesture, though the smile went largely unnoticed.

He was halfway through the door into the house when a sudden hiss from Ratchet off to the side caused him to pause.

“What?”

A quick gesture with red hands to the area around his mouth and Wheeljack understood. Stupid. He quickly retracted his mask, then took up his place inside. If he'd kept it on he could have screwed up the whole re-write.

With a rustle of foliage and the sound of transformation, Wheeljack knew that Ratchet had abandoned them, off to check the perimeter one last time before heading back to the Ark for his shift. He'd have to hurry to ensure he wouldn't be late.

A quick check to the chronometer informed Wheeljack that he had a little over a breem to go. The time passed slowly. He watched Bluestreak through the window, counting down the kliks; waiting impatiently for an internal ping which was the signal to start the re-enactment.

First ping.

Bluestreak started to dance. Just little sways of his hips, his helm bopping while he stretched his frame, leaning out over the lake with his net to scoop up the leaves on the surface.

Second ping.

Wheeljack stepped partway out of the house, pausing to lean on the doorframe and watch Bluestreak work. He brought his hand up to his mouth, let his fingers play at his lower lip. He thought about what was to come and restrained an anticipatory shiver.

Third ping.

Bluestreak dropped the net into the lake. As he dove in to get it, Wheeljack walked over to the commissioned lounge chair, snatching up the towel draped over it, and then waited at the lakeside for Bluestreak to emerge. When he did, throwing the net up onto the edge, Wheeljack dropped the towel in front of him.

“Uh, thanks,” said Bluestreak.

Wheeljack 'hmm'ed at the back of his throat. “You're not very good at this, are you?”

Bluestreak scrambled out of the water, snatching up the towel and swiping at his face with it. “It's my first day,” he apologised. Then looked up. Then froze.

The character Wheeljack was representing was supposed to be naked apart from a small pair of tiny white bikini bottoms. The best he could do, being not Human, was to have his face bare. To Bluestreak's credit, he only kept his optics on Wheeljack's mouth for a nano-klik before he dropped them to his chest where he proceeded to pretend to stare unashamedly. That was, until Wheeljack noisily reset his vocaliser.

“Oh, sorry! Sorry! I'll just, ah... get back to work.”

“Hm.”

Wheeljack turned his back on the stuttering Bluestreak. Stepping up to the lounge chair, his character was supposed to remove the last tiny scrap of her clothing. Wheeljack, instead, thumbed open the panel at his crotch and bared his cables to the air. Behind him Bluestreak made a tiny noise of surprise, but Wheeljack paid it no mind. Slipping into the chair he proceeded to lean back into its cradling comfort and enjoy the radiant heat of the sun. He never took his optics off of Bluestreak.

He called to him after a handful of kliks.

“You look thirsty. Would you like a drink?”

Bluestreak swiped the back of his hand over his faceplates, just beneath the blaze on his helm. His optics traversed the length of Wheeljack's body, from helm to pedes and back up again, lingering at the apex of his thighs and the area on his chest plates around the Autobot sigil. He swallowed audibly, then darted his gaze up to Wheeljack's face. “Yes please,” he said thickly, tacking on a polite ma'am at the end.

Wheeljack pursed his lips in a smile. “Then put that down and come over here.”

Bluestreak obeyed, quickly and eagerly at first. Then, as he neared, they slowed down and the flicker of hesitation appeared on his faceplates. “Ma'am?” he questioned.

“Here,” Wheeljack gestured to the ground beside the chair. “Kneel here.”

Bluestreak did so, shuffling closer when Wheeljack indicated that 'here' wasn't close enough. Reaching out he stroked three of his fingers against the alloy of his brow. “You are very hot.” His optics swept over him. His free hand stroked lightly over his own chest. “Do you like milk? I think I might have some for you.”

Bluestreak's lips parted, mouth open like a baby birds, optics riveted on the movement of Wheeljack's fingers. “Yes, ma'am. My mom says it's good for... for growing boys.”

Wheeljack's eyes flicked down to the as yet closed panel at Bluestreak's groin. “And are you growing?”

“I-I think I am, ma'am.”

“Show me.” Wheeljack lounged back, continuing to touch himself as Bluestreak fumbled with the latch for his cone. With long fingers he pulled it out, smoothly sliding from its containment unit. Long. Standard thickness for his chassis type. He held it in his hand, hips thrust forward, displaying it proudly to Wheeljack.

“Nice,” he smiled. “But it could grow a little more, don't you think?”

“Yes.”

“Then come here, baby.”

Wheeljack reached out, cupping Bluestreak's face in his hands. The lightest pressure was all that was needed to guide him to where he wanted him. Recycled air puffed against his chest plate, sensitive against the glass panels, followed by a mouth and lips and a warm glossa that attempted to milk him for all he was worth.

Wheeljack moaned, and Bluestreak emitted a small whine in response. If there was actually any liquid there for Bluestreak to feast on he was sure the young gunner would have found it. With a little reluctance Wheeljack pushed him away.

“Is there no milk in that one? Oh, I'm sorry, baby. Try over here. How about this one? Maybe this one has milk for you.”

His head dipped again and Bluestreak mouthed, licked and obligingly sucked at his chestplate, glossa flicking and delving into the small seams with light, teasing pleasure. He moaned, sweetly, and pulled his head away. A pout turned down the edges of his lips. His head shook in Wheeljack's hands. “Oh, none there either?”

Wheeljack parted his legs, spreading them wide, baring his exposed cables to Bluestreak's optics.

“I have some juice. Do you like juice, baby?”

An eager nod from Bluestreak, his optics blazing, and with an uncertain mix of apprehension and anticipation, Wheeljack slowly guided Bluestreak’s head down. He had never done this either, and the not knowing how it would feel combined with what the Human’s seemed to get from it had his chassis almost shaking with raw expectation.

The warm, recycled air from Bluestreak’s vents caressed the exposed sensors and cables between his legs, and that sensation was alien enough alone to almost make him jump. Instead, he spread his limbs further apart, his knees embracing the other mech’s shoulders. His fingers shifted against the back of Bluestreak’s neck, and the young gunner hesitated for the barest moment before swallowing up the distance.

At the first touch of Bluestreak’s glossa against his exposed cables Wheeljack had to restrain his body from jerking in surprise. The touch was warm, moist with lubricant; not like probing fingers at all. The gunner’s glossa folded around the cables, nudging against sensors, slipping into creases and circuit bundles with smooth efficiency.

“Fuck yeah,” he hissed, his head falling back as Bluestreak’s glossa caressed a highly sensitive cable.

The gunner tried to pull back, making a questioning sound, but Wheeljack’s hand on the back of his neck kept him from going anywhere. The vibrations from his vocalisations shuddered up that tight cable his thick glossa had been flicking against, and Wheeljack’s hips thrust involuntarily against the young mech’s mouth.

“That’s good,” he whispered, the fingers of his free hand curling tightly around the arm of the chair. “Drink my juice, baby. Put your fingers in me and I'll make you some more.”

It came out sounding more strained than he’d intended, but as Bluestreak followed his instructions and the lead from the human example, two – or at least Wheeljack thought it was two – of the gunners long fingers pushed up through his cabling and _tugged_. The sudden, definite sensation amongst the gentler, more teasing touches of Bluestreak’s glossa sent a bolt of pleasure jerking through his frame. His fingers clenched on the back of Bluestreak’s neck, pressing the young mech’s face in hard against the bundle of exposed cables.

“So good at this,” he murmured, trying to keep from grinding his crotch into the young gunners face. The Human female had just lounged there, legs open to the Human males mouth as he lapped and suckled at her like a turbofox at its progenitor's teats. Wheeljack couldn't afford to move too soon; so he strained, and restrained and choked back the noises that wanted to emerge until he was finally allowed to speak. “Up, _up!_ ”

He unwound his fingers from the arm of the chair, gripping at Bluestreak’s shoulders and pulling him up. “You’re too good at that,” he told him breathlessly, catching sight of the lubricant glistening on the lower half of Bluestreak’s face. He felt those long fingers slide out from between his cables and gasped.

Leaning forward he kissed him, his lips apart to steal as much as he could. The younger mech responded instantly, pushing up into the kiss as if he had been starving for it, rising onto his feet until his weight bore Wheeljack back into his seat. Bluestreak crawled onto the chair above him, the more bulky body of the gunner looming, his glossa pushing into his mouth while his knees pushed his legs apart further, giving him more room to kneel between them.

Wheeljack rumbled in appreciation, feeling a slight pressure fall on the inside of his thigh, alien, but identifiable. Reaching down he took the weight into his hand, his own thumb grazing against the exposed cables between his legs causing him to tighten his grip and gasp into Bluestreak’s mouth, his lower body arching with the accidental pleasure.

Bluestreak echoed the sound, his hips bucking forward and pushing his cone further into Wheeljack’s grip. “Uh!” he grunted, thrusting his glossa against Wheeljack’s, his hips drawing back and repeating the movement, burying his cone into the womb of the inventor’s fist again.

Wheeljack pulled his mouth away, dipping his head to watch. “You feel so big in my hand,” he told the mech rocking above him. It sounded tacky, but Bluestreak’s mouth was by his audio receptors and the sound the younger mech made in response was anything but. He watched as the gunner’s cone slipped in and out of his grip, so close to where his exposed cables were unguarded. “Where do you wanna put it?”

Bluestreak groaned, the metal arms of the chair creaking beneath his fingers as Wheeljack tightened his clasp around him and pumped him firmly, Bluestreak’s hips trying to chase after each stroke. “I-in in your mouth,” he moaned, his back arching above him.

Wheeljack smiled, looking up into the face of the much younger mech, sorry to have to be doing this, but pleased that the gunner was enjoying himself. “You sure you want my mouth?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over the tip of Bluestreak’s cone. A thin, viscous stream of lubricant was steadily being expelled, and it made Wheeljack’s thumb slip over the ridged head smoothly. “You don’t wanna put it in my pussy?”

With a firm grip he guided the head of Bluestreak’s cone down to the exposed cables, rubbing it against them, slipping it between the looser bundles and dragging it back and forth. He could barely keep his own gasp down at the exquisite, alien feel of its ridged tip catching on parts of him that were unused to being touched like this, and Bluestreak, as vocal as he normally was, had no chance.

The younger mech whimpered, and the chair groaned as his fingers clenched. “I-I… uh… I don’t…”

“You don’t?”

“I-I want…”

Wheeljack tightened his fingers around Bluestreak’s cone and kissed him again, his glossa exploring for a moment before pulling back. “Move over,” he told him.

He switched positions, smoothly manoeuvring the gunner beneath him, slinging his right leg over Bluestreak’s hips as he clambered over him, sitting back on his thighs. In the flat of his hand he cupped the younger mech’s cone and pressed the length of it against his exposed cables. Slowly, he rocked his hips forward, until the head of Bluestreak’s cone barely peeked out through them. He pulled back and repeated the slow movement, his cables parting smoothly around the ridged appendage as he slid himself backwards and forwards against it.

Wheeljack could feel Bluestreak’s frame trembling beneath him. He leaned forwards, gripping onto the younger ‘bots shoulders, his upper body lurching with each movement from his hips. “Touch me,” he told him.

Bluestreak’s hands were just as much of a tease as his cone was, offering gentle half-touches and unfulfilling sensations as he stroked over Wheeljack’s chassis. His mouth followed his fingers, kissing and licking over the Autobot symbol on the engineer’s chest, holding Wheeljack close while he arched and rocked above him, steadily increasing speed.

The engineer hummed in pleasure, one hand coming up to knead the back of Bluestreak’s helm. The young mech had a talented glossa. Wheeljack couldn’t deny that this was feeling a whole lot better than he was expecting. Perhaps the young gunner wasn’t quite so inexperienced after all.

“Baby,” Wheeljack whispered, sliding a hand down to Bluestreak’s chest, running his fingers around the inside rim of his headlight. “Baby, you feel so good.”

Bluestreak’s engine revved in response, and his chest lurched up into Wheeljack’s touch.

“You still want my mouth, baby?”

Bluestreak groaned audibly, his hips thrusting up, his cone sliding swiftly through Wheeljack’s cables, spitting tiny sparks as it went.

The energy field came as a surprise, and Wheeljack arched with the sudden arc of pleasure shooting up through his cables to his spark casing. He cried out quietly, hunching forward over Bluestreak’s chest, grinding himself down hard against the younger mech’s cone and shuddering with the sensations that jolted through his circuitry.

“Yes,” Bluestreak gritted out. “Yes, I want – ah! Your mouth.”

“Uh!” Wheeljack’s spark casing was heating up. The energy field fluctuating from Bluestreak’s cone was stimulating it indirectly, traveling up through his cables and wires to touch his spark in a mock imitation of merging. “In a minute, baby. Please, I’m going to-”

Bluestreak thrust up again, his hands clutching at Wheeljack’s hips and dragging him forwards into it. The energy field was stronger this time, resonating through all of Wheeljack’s components. In his casing his spark throbbed, and coolant began to bead on the surface of his joints. For a moment he was worried that they were going too quick, but a swift check to his chronometer told him that they were bang on time. Bluestreak had great control if the energy field had only appeared now. For a moment Wheeljack felt disappointed that he wasn’t as efficient himself, but another strong fluctuation from Bluestreak’s cone replaced that negative emotion with pleasure.

“Ah!”

Wheeljack had to hold himself back. His spark was steadily thrumming in his chassis now, pulsing along to each and every swift stroke of Bluestreak’s cone against his cables. He had to wait. A few more kliks. A few more and he could let go.

He hunched further forward, legs spread wide. His fingers curled into the dips of Bluestreak’s headlights and he thrust his hips sharply against him. One. More. Nano. Klik. More. _There_.

He slid forwards, his upper body falling back, hands flying behind him to grip Bluestreak’s knees even as the gunner sent one massive electrical discharge from his cone up into the engineer’s cables.

Wheeljack was caught up in his solitary overload quickly. He could feel his body jerking with the currents of pleasure, could feel that the energy that took him there was not his own, could also keenly feel the absence of another spark. Its loss was unnatural to him, made the overload less than it could have been, his spark reaching out for another only to fold in upon itself with full frustrated ecstasy when it couldn’t find it. While the aftershocks coursed through him, lessening, his spark fluctuated in it’s casing, missing the presence that would normally have been there. It left Wheeljack still feeling wanting.

Shakily, Wheeljack ran his fingers up over the chassis beneath him, feeling the shuddering of the young gunners frame. He slid down off of his lap, loose-limbed and barely controlled; Bluestreak’s hands coming to rest on his shoulders, Wheeljack pushing the younger mech’s knees apart and settling between them.

“Your turn,” he said unsteadily, glancing up past Bluestreak’s cone to meet his arousal-brightened optics. He held that gaze, taking the solid shaft into his hand, watching those blue optics dim as he guided it towards his mouth. His sensitive body, still on edge from the unsettled overload, shuddered with the enduring tendrils of arousal. Bluestreak’s body trembled when he opened his mouth and ran his glossa over the tip of him.

The lubricant was standard c grade and tasted like the underside of a train carriage. However, it was the texture of the cone against his glossa that was intriguing. It tickled against him, made him want to rub his glossa against it a little harder, made him want to bury it in his throat.

The cables at his groin tingled with static as he licked at it, Bluestreak’s fingers clenching on his shoulders. He could hear the younger mech’s systems revving at each touch of Wheeljack’s glossa to his cone. It was an arousing sound, and it only served to make Wheeljack feel even more deprived.

With his other hand he started to stroke the inside of Bluestreak’s thigh, his fingertips teasing around the lip of his opened interface unit while the hand holding Bluestreak’s cone at the base started a slow, steady upwards stroke. Holding that bright gaze again, Wheeljack opened his mouth and took in the head of Bluestreak’s cone.

Bluestreak wasn’t supposed to cry out then, but he did. For a moment there the overwrite stuttered, the virus program confused; and Wheeljack froze, waiting. The nano-klik seemed to last forever before the overwrite continued, but the program had obviously come to a decision – noises were acceptable.

And Bluestreak was noisy. Not loud, no, but each time Wheeljack took him deeper into his mouth he would gasp, and when he’d circle his fingers around his interface port Bluestreak would moan, his body shuddering. And if he’d pump him quickly with one hand, suck on the tip of his cone, and flick his fingers around the rim of his port with his other hand Bluestreak would make the most beautiful keening sound. His body begged blatantly for more touching, responding and encouraging each of Wheeljack’s touches, though he kept to the script and didn’t say a word. His knees had long since lifted up over the armrests of the chair, wide and out of the way so that Wheeljack could have full access to the parts that were uncovered between, and Wheeljack could sometimes see them jerking out of the sides of his optics.

His engine purred when he felt Bluestreak’s fingers on his resonators, caressing the seams before curling around them and gripping hard. The pressure from the gunner’s arms pulled his face in against him, anticipating the next slide of his mouth down over him and Bluestreak’s hips riding up into it hard. He made a sound of surprise, Bluestreak’s cone delving further into his mouth than before, plunging deep into his throat. He shifted his hand from the base of his cone to his thigh, gripping tight as he followed the lead of Bluestreak’s demanding hands, the young gunner thrusting into his mouth until Wheeljack’s nose began to graze against the lip of the open interface unit.

“Ah!” Bluestreak’s cry echoed as Wheeljack pushed a finger into his slick port. The energy field within the channel caressed it, tingling, and Bluestreak’s hips fought against themselves to thrust up into his mouth and push down onto his finger. “Uh!”

Their engines were revving, systems overheating and moisture beading on their frames. It made Bluestreak’s thighs slippery, Wheeljack clenching harder to hold on, but Bluestreak’s writhing only became more fevered and pronounced.

“Yes,” Bluestreak groaned above him, “I like this, I like this,” and bucked furiously up into Wheeljack’s mouth. Lubricant was steadily being expelled from the cone plunging into his throat, and what he couldn’t hold in his mouth was forced out by each withdrawal. “Shit, _yes_.”

The human curse falling from Bluestreak’s mouth – even though being in the script – surprised him; aroused him. Wheeljack had to hold himself back from putting a hand between his own legs.

“Almost there,” the young gunner panted, his hard grip pulling Wheeljack’s head in against him with a swift jerk, crying out again when the engineer added another finger into his port.

The energy field spiked suddenly, the small nodes on the inside of Bluestreak’s port sending sharp shocks up into Wheeljack’s fingers, the similar connections on his cone doing the same to the inventors glossa.

Wheeljack groaned at the stimulating flickers of energy; sensors in his mouth, throat and fingers reporting heat, pleasure, encouraging his mounting need. Beneath his hands and mouth Bluestreak jolted, his field spiking higher, and Wheeljack pulled back from Bluestreak’s suddenly lax grip, the younger mech’s cone sliding wetly from his mouth only to be swallowed by the grasp of his hand. Fervently, he pumped him, lubricant dribbling from the tip and the nodes sending pulse after pulse of energy through him from his fingers up into his arm, making the need to touch himself almost paramount.

“Come,” he told him instead, vocaliser spitting out static from the strain of his unsatisfied need. “Come for me. Give me your cream.” And Bluestreak hunched forward, flinging himself up from the chair, humping into Wheeljack’s hand while his mouth fell open and a long, silent cry shook his body.

Sparks erupted from port and cone, violent and brilliant, pulsing with the surges of Bluestreak’s energy field, shooting out over Wheeljack’s fingers, climbing his wrists and sending pleasure coursing through his neural network. Untouched by hand, Wheeljack overloaded, crouched between Bluestreak’s jerking legs, his lower face glistening with the gunner’s lubricant and mouth parted in surprise mere centimetres from his sparking cone.

For a moment the intense flash of light from his resonators illuminated the entire area in blacklight blue.

Then he hunched over, his frame rattling as he shook, burying his face into that damp space between Bluestreak’s discharging cone and the seam of his hip. He pressed his lips there, an open-mouthed kiss; licked with his glossa at the lubricant that beaded there while he waited for both of their shudders to die down.

Slowly, with limbs that felt only marginally responsive, Wheeljack shifted, his hand coming up from between them, taking Bluestreak’s cone into his hand and pressing it against his cheek. Turning his head, optics shuttered, and with great gentleness he dragged his lips up the length of it. He felt Bluestreak shiver beneath his hands, and drew his mouth away after placing one soft kiss to the crown of it. Looking up, he met the bright gaze of the young gunner staring at him. “You feel better now, baby?” he asked.

Bluestreak nodded, his mouth still open enough to glimpse only the tip of his denta. There were no more words to be said.

With a click only Wheeljack could hear, the overwrite completed itself. A moment later the old file was purged, and the new, alterable one was in its place. The virus once again took no notice of its slow decimation.

With the low hiss of strained hydraulics, Wheeljack slithered down from his high kneeling position, his legs parting beneath him until he sat down fully on the ground.

“You okay?” he asked Bluestreak, looking for any signs of distress or regret on the other mech’s face. Instead he saw only contentment, and perhaps a little concern.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” the gunner leaned forward, arms sliding slowly to his knees to support his weight. “I’m sure this isn’t something you really want to be doing. I mean, if I was in your place I think I would be panicking and yelling a lot.”

Wheeljack thought back to the overload he’d just experienced, and how he hadn’t even needed to be touched to feel that strange pleasure of sparkless ecstasy. A little smile tipped up the corners of his lips. “I wouldn’t put it like that _exactly_ ,” he said. “I’m learnin’ stuff. You can never learn too much, you know.” Wheeljack patted at Bluestreak’s knee. “Thanks for doin’ this, though, Blue. I appreciate it.”

Bluestreak nodded. “You’re welcome. Thanks for trusting me enough to ask. You know that you can ask me anything, right? I know that some mech’s think I’m too young to know much of anything, and maybe they’re right, but despite how much I talk, I am a good listener, you know, and I’ll help out in anyway that I can.”

“Ah, you’re too good!” Wheeljack gathered his legs beneath him and stood. “Let’s go get cleaned up, huh?”

“Do you think you could drag me? I’m not sure I can move…”


	6. Check Up / New Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack just can't catch a break.

Perceptor was waiting outside the Ark when they returned. Bluestreak, sensing the sudden tension, bid them both a quick but heartfelt farewell before disappearing into the Ark to clean up more effectively. The water at the lake had been pleasant, but Wheeljack could still feel the lubricant lingering in areas it normally wouldn't be.

Perceptor looked composed, as always, but Wheeljack could detect the minute trembling in his frame that belied his nervousness.

"Wheeljack," he started. His voice held the minutest trace of crackle. "I-"

"Look, it's okay." He held up a hand to still him. "Really, Percy. Whatever it was, it was fine. Don't worry about it."

Perceptor's face twisted in an expression Wheeljack was not familiar with. It looked a little bit like pain.

"I cannot keep from being concerned, Wheeljack. You trusted me with a task and I conducted myself badly."

"You conducted yourself fine."

"Not afterwards." Perceptor's feet shuffled awkwardly. "I apologise for my behaviour following the scenario. I was… disturbed more than I had anticipated."

Wheeljack's voice softened. "It's okay."

Perceptor's optics dimmed slightly. "Please do not ask me to do it again."

"I promise."

Any tension Perceptor was carrying with him seemed to flee from his frame with a great rush.

"Thank you."

Wheeljack nodded. "Have you seen Ratchet?" he asked him.

"He accosted me this morning. I presume that the scenario today went well?"

"Appears so."

"That's good."

"Yeah. Hey, I feel pretty gross and am dyin' for a shower, so I'm sorry but-"

"Oh, of course," Perceptor looked embarrassed. "I apologise for keeping you."

"No worries. Talk to you later."

"Yes."

It was something, Wheeljack thought as he made his way to the shower room. Still a bit awkward, but better.

 

 

The planet had rotated into its night cycle when clean, shiny, and relaxing on his berth he was interrupted by a chirping at his door.

“C’mmin!” he called out, placing his datapad to the side as he sat up on his berth. He wasn’t surprised when he saw the familiar frame of Ratchet enter into his view.

“Hey,” Wheeljack greeted, pleased to see him.

“How did it go?”

“Well enough,” Wheeljack responded. He shifted on his berth to give Ratchet some space to sit, but the medic remained standing. “It took. Hitched a bit when Blue got a little vocal, but settled down quickly.”

“Tags working?”

Wheeljack grinned beneath his mask. His resonators glowing a bright, pleased blue. “Nope.”

Finally Ratchet’s face relaxed. “Good.”

“Should be able to purge ‘em all easily enough once it’s all done.”

“We can only hope.” Ratchet’s optics blazed a little. “You were lucky with Bluestreak, Wheeljack,” he said. “He was eager to help and willing to do what was needed. Some of the others won’t be that easy.”

“I know.”

“And until we know what other videos are in that head of yours we can’t do anything about forewarning them either.”

Wheeljack sighed. “I know.”

“And I’d presume that you would see me if anything gets damaged, but I know you too well. Lie back.”

Wheeljack’s optics flickered in surprise at the abrupt change in conversation. “We gonna do this ev’ry time?”

Ratchet’s glare was formidable. “Yes,” he replied shortly. “Especially when you don’t obey my orders. Now lie back and open up.”

Wheeljack, once again, had to stare up at the ceiling while Ratchet fiddled around with his insides.

“Still sensitive?” he asked when Wheeljack’s legs started and his hips lifted from the berth.

Wheeljack’s resonators flushed red. “Yeah, and my spark’s takin’ a while to settle down.”

Ratchet pulled his fingers free. “Well, you’re not damaged,” he said. “The sensitivity appears normal. Nothing’s wrenched or abraded; the sensors are just unused to such direct stimulation. They’ll probably overcompensate for a while yet.”

Wheeljack nodded his understanding, tilting his head to the side when Ratchet’s head popped up between his legs, a worried frown creasing his lips. “So what was that about your spark?” he asked.

“It’s feelin’ weird,” Wheeljack told him. “Sort of like it does when I’m startin’ to interface. I’m guessin’ it has somethin’ to do with not feelin’ another’s spark energy. It’s like it’s… not really finished yet.”

Ratchet nodded once, then shifted from the base of the berth to sit at Wheeljack’s side. With a swiftness born of familiarity he ran a quick scan over the engineer’s chest. “The output is a little higher than normal for you,” he remarked, analysing the readouts. “But not by much. You say it feels like it does while preparing to interface?”

Wheeljack nodded.

“There might be more to our designs than just easy access, then,” Ratchet mused. “Now up!” he prodded at the lazing mechanic’s shoulder. “I want Perceptor to take a look at that virus. You say the overwrite took, but I want to be sure.”

“You’re a demandin’ mech, Ratchet,” Wheeljack told him.

“If I wasn’t,” the medic said to him as he paused at the doorway. “I’d never see you. Now come on, recharge is calling to me.”

“Maybe it’s callin’ to Perceptor, too.”

“Even more reason to get this over with quickly. Stop meandering, Wheeljack. And for Primus’s sake, don’t forget to reconnect your plating.”

“Oops.”

Ratchet sighed. “Scatterbrain.”

 

 

Despite Ratchet’s hopes, nothing went as planned at all. None of them got to recharge that night until well into the middle of third watch.

“Frag,” Ratchet swore for the umpteenth time. The medic’s face was a thundercloud, and Wheeljack watched him with some trepidation, anticipating some sort of physical lashing-out of frustration at any moment.

Perceptor, in comparison, appeared as calm as he usually was. He just shrugged, disconnecting the transfer cables from Wheeljack and retracting them into his chassis as though nothing particularly troublesome had just happened. Wheeljack, however, could tell his concern. Perceptor’s steps were slow and heavy. The scientist was thinking.

“It’s not as though it’s somethin’ that can’t be dealt with,” Wheeljack supplied.

Ratchet shook his head. “Deal with them, sure. Find them? Not so easy.”

Perceptor shrugged, his fingers fidgeting against each other. “I do admit that their integration is a potential problem, but-”

“Potential?!”

Wheeljack watched Ratchet warily.

“Well, yes, but as I was-”

“We’re not going to be able to locate the files until the tag systems run and automatically select a video. Until they actually play we can’t see them. How is this only a _potential_ problem?”

“The time frame between each instance the system's run is very short.”

“It’s only run twice!”

“But on average of how many words each of us speak per minute, the probability of anyone in the Ark saying a word on the tags list is 89%.”

“Oh, yes,” Ratchet bit back. “I’m going to run around saying ‘cock’ on a regular basis.”

There was a long pause. Suddenly, both mechs heads turned to fix on Wheeljack, optics bright with expectation. It took him barely a moment to interpret their stares. Sadly, the mechanic shook his head.

“What?” demanded Ratchet. “I thought ‘cock’ was mandatory for human pornography.”

“Maybe in the plural?” Perceptor questioned.

“What, cocks?”

Again, the looks, and again the slow shake of Wheeljack’s head. “Sorry, guys,” he apologised. “But I think the words need to be in combinations. They’ve all been in groups of two or more so far.”

Ratchet started swearing again; muttered vulgarities under his breath.

“I do believe that they need to be in English,” Perceptor told him, unperturbed when the medic threw him a nasty glare.

“What are your probability calculations, now?” Ratchet asked, voice deceptively calm despite the lightning Wheeljack fully expected to see shooting out of his optics.

“Reduced, but not significantly so.”

“Percentage, Perceptor.”

A small frown altered the tilt of the scientist’s lips. “72.”

Wheeljack dimmed his optics and sighed. “Suggestions?” he asked them.

“Immersing yourself in the social activities on the ship,” Perceptor said. “The more people you are around, the higher the probability is that someone will say some quantity of the key words.”

Ratchet rubbed wearily at his chevron. “It’s the only real chance we have to activate some of those ghost avi’s.”

With the sound of a distant roar, Wheeljack felt the program activate before it even appeared on his AM display. Two words flashed in the upper left corner, and he must have made a sound or some physical sign of surprise because Ratchet and Perceptor were instantly at his side, Ratchet running scans and Perceptor pulling the recently used cables out of their compartments in his chassis.

One of them asked for the keywords, and somehow he managed to relay them. He felt Perceptor’s cables insert into the ports previously exposed on his upper arms and the back of his neck. The creeping of the scientist’s observation program was a cool touch in comparison to the liquid heat of the virus.

“Have you found it?” Ratchet asked above his head.

A moment later Perceptor replied. “In the jet-propulsion protocols.”

“Wheeljack?”

“Human’s are weird,” was all the engineer could manage to say. He didn’t catch the look Perceptor and Ratchet gave each other over his head, too amused by the video that played in his active memory. “Really, really _weird_.”


	7. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was rather hard to feel guilty when Wheeljack was making those quiet sounds of pleasure and appearing to enjoy it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: consensual voyeurism and one touch-starved mech.

Mirage had been seated in the corner of the commissary, sipping at his morning energon, engaged in some of his standard mech-watching when he had been accosted by the medic Ratchet.

Well, accosted wasn’t quite the right word. What actually occurred was that the chief medical officer of the Autobot army strode in, sat himself down in front of him and snatched his half-full cube from his fingers, downing it in one shot. He’d dropped it back onto the table, his head looking as though it was to follow, but by sheer force of will alone seemed to be being held upright.

Mirage, to avoid the stare that Ratchet was giving him, plucked his empty cube off of the table between them and gave the vague shimmer of residue within the majority of his attention. “You’re welcome,” he muttered somewhat sourly.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” another voice apologised. Mirage looked up to see the ship’s mechanical engineer sliding into the empty seat beside the medic. “Not enough recharge.” Wheeljack slid across to him another energon cube.

Taking it, he thanked the mechanic even as he watched Ratchet down the one Wheeljack handed to him with just as much swiftness as the first.

“Busy night?” he asked. He knew he was being rude the moment he said it, personal relationships on board the Ark were none of his business, but honestly, he was expected to be polite now? He had been waiting all shift for that energon.

Ratchet snorted, that disturbing stare settling on him again, while Wheeljack’s optics only flickered at him a few number of times.

“You c’ld say that,” the mechanic said slowly. “Actually, that’s sorta why we’re here to talk to you.”

Mirage frowned. A disturbing mixture of confusion and anticipation agitated within him; though, he told himself, that if it were for _that_ then Perceptor would be sitting across from him too. “I’m listening.”

“Not here,” Ratchet said.

Wheeljack’s optics were bright. “Do you have a breem?”

 

 

And that was how Mirage arrived at where he was now, in Ratchet’s office at the back of the medical bay, listening to Ratchet and Perceptor taking turns to describe the situation.

He had to admit to himself, this was not exactly the proposition he had been expecting.

“There’s a reason we’re trying not to involve too many of the younger mechs,” Ratchet was saying.

Mirage looked at him, curious. “Why is that?”

“Differences in equipment,” Ratchet replied. “As older models our parts are different due to the requirements at the time we were created. Cones and ports don’t work too well with our systems because we don’t have any specific support for them. The option of using the interfacing cables is always available, but for some of the scenarios…” the medic shook his head. “They really just aren’t up to what is required.”

“It’s that physical?” Mirage asked, his optics flicking over to where Wheeljack was standing by the monitor, watching the conversation.

“Have you seen their pornography?” Ratchet asked.

Mirage shook his head. “Can’t say that I’ve had the misfortune.”

“You have now.” Ratchet replied. “Wheeljack?”

“This is what, if you agree to help me out, we’re goin’ to have to re-enact,” Wheeljack said, switching the monitor on. A video file was open on the screen, paused, and on the upper left corner was displayed the unit description and Wheeljack’s cartouche, identifying that the video file had been downloaded from the engineer’s drives early that morning.

“You can refuse to help at any time,” Ratchet said from behind his left shoulder. “But whatever you choose, keep what you see and what you’ve been told to yourself.”

Mirage nodded. “I understand.”

“We’ll see.”

By the time the video had run to its completion nine point four-two minutes later, Mirage had a very clear understanding of why it was him that they specifically required. He also understood why Wheeljack didn’t really want those kind of video files running through his active memory without constraint. He wondered if Ratchet would check his optics for him, he thought he might have given them hairline fractures with his gawping.

“The Humans actually do this sort of thing?” he asked, turning his bright optics to the medical officer.

Wheeljack cleared his intakes with a cough. “Actually,” he said, drawing Mirage’s incredulous gaze his way. “This clip was artificially created.”

“Ahuh.”

“And, well, so you can see why we need you.”

“ _Clearly_.”

Ratchet turned an exasperated stare to the spy. “Very funny, Mirage.”

The spy shrugged his shoulders. “I try.”

“So?”

Mirage cocked his head at Ratchet. “‘So’, what?”

The medic spoke through his gritted denta. “ _Are you going to help?_ ”

Mirage turned his gaze from the increasingly frustrated medic to the engineer this conversation concerned the most. Wheeljack was trying not to fidget over by the monitor as he watched them talk, but Mirage could see the minute movements he made; the way he had his weight shifted onto his left leg, and the barely perceptible twitches his fingers made as if they were aching to get at one of his inventions. Wheeljack wasn’t verbally saying anything, but his body was giving an in-depth soliloquy to Mirage about worry, doubt and hope.

Being an elite, Mirage was always concerned with his image, even when he had no image to see; and despite being independent, he also cared about what others thought of him. But Wheeljack stood before him right at this moment, needing his help, his body language portraying himself in a way Mirage had never seen before. And who would know but those in the room with him now, if he were to help him?

And those other three in the room would be the only ones to know as well, other than himself, if he were to say ‘no’. But that, looking into Wheeljack’s optics as he stood there placidly waiting for his response, was simply something he wouldn’t do.

“I will,” he said.

“You will?” Perceptor repeated, surprised.

Mirage nodded. “Yes.”

Watching the expression of relief pass through Wheeljack’s optics was worth the agreement alone. Instantly the engineer’s body posture changed, shifting back into his casual loose-limbed balance, and the fins on the sides of his head glowed dimly blue in a smile. Mirage felt straight away that he was doing the right thing. If only everything else in his life were that simple.

He turned to Ratchet. “When?” he asked.

“Soon,” the medic replied. “We don’t know what will happen if we leave this virus too long, the primary code inactive or not.”

“It’s integrating?”

Ratchet nodded. “Fast. A majority of the files are already hidden. Within an Earth month it will be impossible to extract.”

“Frag.”

“Uhuh.”

“So…” Mirage looked around at the others. “How do we go about this?”

Perceptor quirked a small smile. “Ratchet and I will leave to prepare the room. You ought to examine the video file again. Memorise what it is that is required of your position. It has to be as close as possible so as to match all the markers; otherwise the program may reject it.”

Mirage nodded his understanding.

“We’ll let you know when we’re done,” Ratchet told both Mirage and Wheeljack as he and Perceptor turned to go.

“Thanks, Ratch,” Wheeljack said quietly.

The medic only nodded before he left.

The door slid closed with a soft-sounding thump, and both Mirage and Wheeljack turned to look at each other.

“Thanks for doin’ this,” Wheeljack said. “I’d be in for a lotta trouble if you hadn’t agreed.”

Mirage shrugged again. “To be honest this wasn’t quite what I was expecting when you asked me to come here. Still, I’m flattered that you trust me to be of help.”

Wheeljack’s fins lit up blue again. “Of course.”

“You would do the same for me if our positions were reversed.”

“I would.”

“So,” Mirage crossed the distance between them until he stood at Wheeljack’s side. “Interfacing with spectres? Humans are strange.”

Wheeljack laughed. “It’s the strangest one I’ve seen so far,” he agreed.

Mirage smiled, and put his hand on the engineer’s shoulder. “Play the video for me again, would you?”

The second time that Mirage watched it, he took notes. He timed each sequence of moves, and committed to memory each touch and motion. There was only a faint fluctuation in the video and the denting on the human’s skin to let him know where the ‘phantom’ was touching, and he committed those points to memory as well. Thankfully, he didn’t have any vulgar or cheesy lines he needed to say, unlike Wheeljack.

He found himself touching the engineer while he was watching the film clip, simple strokes of his hand across Wheeljack’s shoulder. He tried to excuse it as comfort for the other mech, but to be honest Mirage was imagining how it would be to touch the engineer in the manner that the spectre in the video was, to make the vibrant ‘bot writhe with arousal. His spark was lightly flickering in its casing with a shy anticipation, even as the human on the monitor reached her overload and the real seed from her phantom lover splattered over her stomach. Beneath the weight of his hand, Mirage could feel the tremors in Wheeljack’s chassis. He tried to be unconcerned.

“We’re going to have a problem,” he said a moment later, when the monitor had gone dark.

Wheeljack turned his head to face him, his optics bright with concern. “What is it?”

“My shield only lasts for a breem. This avi is an eighth longer than that.”

The engineer’s optics flickered for a nanoklik. “It’s dependent on your power supply, yeah? And the amount of strain on your drivers?” Wheeljack asked. “Perceptor an’ I might be able to jack somethin’ up for you to give you some extra juice. We’ll think of somethin’, don’t worry.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one who is worried?”

Wheeljack shrugged beneath Mirage’s hand. “Nothin’ to be worried about,” he said. “It’ll all work out. Promise.”

Mirage couldn’t see beneath the mask that Wheeljack always wore, but he could almost be certain that the expression beneath it was that of a smile. And if Mirage found that weird, he didn’t mention it.

 

 

Perceptor and Ratchet returned a joor later, seemingly satisfied with whatever work they had needed to do to prepare the room for both Mirage and Wheeljack. Perceptor busied himself at the diagnostic console with Wheeljack, working through the problem with Mirage’s shield generator while Ratchet took Mirage aside and reminded him - rather aggressively, Mirage thought - on the rules of his participation.

“I understand,” Mirage reiterated, pushing as much of his sincerity into his tones as possible until they were almost saturated with it. “I will not speak of this to anyone. You have my oath.”

Ratchet nodded, finally seeming satisfied, and once Wheeljack and Perceptor had jury-rigged a secondary generator, and he had attached it in a small cavity under Mirage’s abdominal plating, Ratchet swiftly lead them to the room he and Perceptor had prepared.

“It’s all set up. You know your parts. I’ll be in my office. You’re both to go there when you’re finished, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, Ratchet.”

“Good. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Ratch’.” And this time Mirage had no doubt that Wheeljack was smiling.

 

 

They assumed their own positions casually.

Mirage stood hidden in the shadows of the doorway. The room before him was dimly lit, a contrast of soft illumination and moody shadows, the berth, however, a bright spot where colours and shapes were clear. Perceptor and Ratchet had done a good job. Until Wheeljack entered into the vicinity of the wide berth he had been an indistinguishable shape in the room. There were plenty of places for Mirage to lurk until his cloaking abilities were required.

In silence he watched as the inventor settled himself on the edge of the berth, his hands with those long, dextrous fingers coming up to run over his helm from face to the base of his neck, rubbing and kneading at the plating. Mirage could hear the faint clicks of the loose ones slipping into place, Wheeljack’s quiet sighs of relief breathy whispers after them. With his optics Mirage traced the path of those fingers, following them as they slid across Wheeljack’s throat, pushing upwards with smooth pressure to cup each side of the engineer’s face, another quiet click permeating the still air of the room, and the blast shield that usually hid the lower half of his face from view split irregularly on opposite sides, the three long panels retracting to leave what was beneath exposed.

For the first time Mirage was finally gifted with the sight of Wheeljack’s features. The wait was not a disappointment, for the aesthetics of the engineer’s face were twice as more pleasing for their unfamiliarity than for their classic early Golden Age beauty. It was obvious to Mirage that his creators had favoured the style of the pre-industrialists – the handsome curves and invisible seams declaring hand-crafted artistry that had once been as familiar to Mirage as the taste of low-grade energon was now.

He was filled with a sudden longing to bat away those thin fingers and to take their place against his face; to map that smooth dermal plating until no section was bereft of his touch. He knew how sensitive it was, how to caress it until it was his own hands wringing those quiet sighs and lazy hums from the engineer’s vocaliser rather than Wheeljack’s own. The knowledge that he would be doing that soon in any case was not enough to cool the bright flare of want. He missed the old Cybertron so much that his spark ached sometimes, and right there before him was a mech whose features physically embodied one of the most familiar parts to him. He could not suppress the want even had he been required to.

Mirage felt almost guiltily thankful for the opportunity the virus had provided him. Almost. It was rather hard to feel guilty when Wheeljack was making those quiet sounds of pleasure and appearing to enjoy it so much.

The engineer sighed, and the sound shuddered through the small confines of the room and straight into Mirage, who clenched his fists. With a smooth movement, Wheeljack rolled down onto his back, a half turn and shimmy placing him almost centre in the large berth where he spread his legs and slid a confident hand down between them. That hand, with Mirage’s optics following religiously, stroked over thighs and hips, disappearing between parted thighs to slip along the sensitive inside seams in ways that made Wheeljack’s back arch and intakes stutter.

A quick glance up to the inventor’s face confirmed that he had his optics shuttered and Mirage had to quickly restrain himself from making a sound at the sight of Wheeljack’s fingers in his mouth, the long lengths thrusting wetly between his lips, in and out while he groaned with self-pleasure.

Finding himself being turned on more than he’d expected by this, Mirage paid extra attention to the countdown in his active memory, waiting impatiently for the moment he was to involve himself in this scenario.

It seemed to take forever. Wheeljack was working himself into a moaning, writhing frenzy over on the berth, and Mirage could feel his optics blazing with his increased energy, eager beyond any expectations on his part to just climb above the whimpering engineer and ride his spark to overload.

It was ridiculously arousing; knowing that he couldn’t be seen, yet expected to be there. Totally different to the sick, sordid sexual interest that he sometimes felt when accidental witness to the rare interfacings on the Nemesis. Here, he was wanted, acknowledged, this show was put on for him. Back there, trying not to watch but drawn anyway to the rolling, wildly bucking hips of the seekers as they tried to climb into each other through their ports; Megatron’s violent subjugation of whatever underling had displeased him; the careful, slow bonding of two mechs in love; he felt disgusted with himself. Watching Wheeljack drive himself slowly into overload, knowing that Mirage had his optics on him, was pushing him to break cover and just _take_.

But patience was a virtue, as the people of this planet declared, and it was an old lesson learned well for Mirage. He could wait, but each nano-klik more that he observed Wheeljack pleasuring himself, that face of ancient aesthetics incredibly expressive, was a nano-klik more of eager want he wasn’t quite certain that he could handle. It had been a long time since simply observing another had had his pumps working so hard. His hands were curling and uncurling at his thighs, fighting the urge to touch himself where Wheeljack was. Primus, he couldn’t remember how long it had been since someone had touched _him_ like that.

His chronometer made a quiet beep of warning, then the alert popped up in his active memory and Mirage activated his shield with barely a nano-klik in between.

He advanced from the gloom with a silence perfected by many vorns of warfare, approaching the berth with controlled steps withheld from breaking into a run by sheer strength of will alone. Then the second alert sounded, and he was on the berth, climbing above the inventor, pushing his knees farther apart with his own and grasping a tight hold of Wheeljack’s thigh.

The engineer reacted to his presence with a start. His head jerked up, optics glowing brighter. Those long fingers slipped from his mouth with a wet ‘pop’, and Mirage grasped the wrist quickly, bringing it down on the berth beside Wheeljack’s head.

The wash of confusion over Wheeljack’s face was charming. His mouth opened to question, but Mirage pushed his hand down to the apex of the engineer’s legs with a firm touch. He wanted to feel the place that made the inventor arch and moan, to make him shudder beneath his fingers as he had for his own. It was merely a bonus that the video required it of him too.

His fingers covered Wheeljack’s, and whatever the inventor was going to say was cut off by a shuddering gasp and a tiny tremor as Mirage moved their hands.

He smirked, delighted by the reaction, and pulled himself up higher over the other mech, enough to look down between their chassis to watch their joined hands play in the cradle of their thighs. Wheeljack shuddered and tossed his head beneath him, and those resonators that had always fascinated Mirage flashed violet with each of the inventor’s quiet cries.

There was little size difference between them, but Mirage felt large and powerful above the writhing engineer. Strong and heady, the control he felt as his movements encouraged Wheeljack’s hips to chase after their fingers was addictive, and he spread himself out further above him, lording his unseen weight over him gloriously.

Wheeljack was an ocean of movement, light slicing across edges and spilling over the flat plains of his frame, the violet flashes from his resonators a moody accent to his colour scheme. He had never seemed as interesting to Mirage as he did then, with his knees knocking against Mirage’s thighs and exposed face twisted with pleasure. He was venting air to a rhythm, engine revving in a way that sounded almost like panting, and the sound was electrifying. Mirage thought that Ratchet and Perceptor had to be two very lucky, Primus-blessed mech’s to be interfacing with Wheeljack regularly.

“Oh, God,” the engineer moaned, voice pitched to almost a whine. “I don’t – I don’t – oh, God!”

Mirage smirked, unseen, and leaned down until their chest compartments touched, his head dropping so he could mouth at the sensitive fuel lines at the engineer’s neck.

“Who are you? Why are you? Oh, _fuck!_ ”

Mirage bit down, and Wheeljack arched, head thrown back and vocaliser stuttering with a long groan. His free hand came up, grasping with desperate strength at Mirage’s shoulder, the other straining against his invisible grip, fingers clenching and unclenching with effort.

“Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck _me!_ ”

The signal, reaching his audios by strained vocaliser and pinged internally from the chronometer, almost sent Mirage wild with anticipation. He was proud of his self control, but it was steadily slipping from his grasp. He wanted with a desire he had felt building for vorns, but never could settle, and it _screamed_ for him to take what was being offered. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what or who he wanted, but it would blunt the sharp edge of his need, and by Primus, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to take it _now_.

Pumps working with energon-thundering speed – he could hear it churning around his systems like a maelstrom – Mirage lurched back, his arms snapping up to capture Wheeljack’s free one by the wrist, slamming it back down beside the engineer’s head even as his knees forced Wheeljack’s further apart.

He shifted, opened his chest compartment, bared his invisible spark to the mech beneath him and whispered, so quiet and low that his vocaliser barely vibrated; “Give yourself to me.”

The whisper sounded like the wind as it left him, and Wheeljack moaned, shuddering beneath him, his chest compartment and spark chamber opening in response.

With a low cry of triumph Mirage surged down, his pulsing spark, hungry for touch, circling around Wheeljack’s a couple of times; the engineer twisting beneath him at the teasing proximity before Mirage closed the distance and pressed their cells together.

Wheeljack cried out, wrists straining in Mirage’s grip, vulgarities pouring from his parted lips while they rocked and grunted against each other. Their energies fed each others, strengthening and doubling the charge between them over and over until it was a significant force, a pressure in the nests of their chests that fluctuated through them both.

Mirage could see the ceiling reflected in the beads of coolant glittering on Wheeljack’s face, small rivulets running along seams and cables as Wheeljack trembled against him, writhing; barely still for a moment while their pulsing sparks pushed against each other fervently.

He rocked above him, drawing his effulgent core away partially before thrusting his chest back down to re-engage. Their energies coursed through each other, building and snapping, shutting down minor systems when the charge proved too much for them.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Wheeljack chanted, groaning and twitching with each concurrent surge.

Mirage counted down with the chronometer, holding himself back, knowing that beneath him the engineer was doing the same, trying to stave off the inevitable until it was the right moment. Though it was far from easy; somewhere in the past moments Wheeljack had wound his legs around Mirage’s hips, using them to urge his movements to greater speed. It wasn’t helping his restraint, and he grit his denta, grunting with the strain of holding back overload. Time was ticking down. Not long now, and he could let it go.

Their sparks slid and flared against each other, containment cells made slick by condensation from their merging spark energies, positive and negative forces pulling them close to mingle energies and corona’s, but not close enough to brush cores. That would be…

A long, frantic shudder coursed through his frame, and he threw his head back, intakes seizing. That would be…

Time.

… Dangerous.

Time!

He lurched back, sensors throughout his body going haywire, reporting pleasure, failure, pleasure, failure, pleasure, failure as Wheeljack arched up to follow him, wrists straining against Mirage’s grip, tossing his head and frame convulsing as they both _let go_.

The inventor’s resonators flashed, brilliant stuttering hiccups of penetrating blue-violet light that threw anything white into a whole new dimension of shape and colour.

Mirage let go of Wheeljack’s wrists as though they were on fire, the strength of his overload bowing his back, pulling their pulsing sparks free of each others fields with a flare of radiance. Drops of spark energy, like molten metal, slipped from the cradle of Mirage’s opened chamber and splattered onto Wheeljack’s abdominal armour, petering into non-existence with a shower of tiny sparkles.

For a nano-klik, vision and hearing were whited out.

When audio and optics returned to full functionality he found himself collapsed against the inventor’s chassis, joined hip to cheek, cycling air furiously through his vents with stuttering, jagged intakes.

“ _Primus,_ ” Wheeljack was whispering reverently beneath him, twitching; armour juddering with the aftershocks of Mirage’s energy coursing through him. His hands were absentmindedly petting at Mirage’s sides, and those resonators, so articulate, were glowing a dim blue.

Slowly, slowly, they reset, overloaded systems coming back online with quiet whirrs, chambers closing with final-sounding clicks.

Mirage pulled away a little, and Wheeljack sighed, his optics flashing and his lips parting to say something. Suddenly seized by a strong prompting Mirage stopped him with a kiss – something he had wanted to do since they had started – dropping his shielding and moving his hand to cup the side of Wheeljack’s face.

A small sound came from the inventor’s vocaliser; surprise or protest Mirage didn’t know, but as his long kiss continued on undisturbed, even participated in, he figured that it wasn’t the latter.

After a while Mirage felt Wheeljack’s hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him away. Their lips disengaged with a quiet smack of released pressure. Wheeljack’s optics were bright as he looked up at him, confusion set in the dermal plating around them.

“Mirage?” he asked quietly.

The question was obvious in his tone, and the covert agent sighed, rolling off of the mechanic with a quiet apology. “My apologies,” he said, rubbing his hand against the hot metal of Wheeljack’s abdomen. “I…got a little carried away.”

“It’s okay,” Wheeljack consoled reassuringly. “It’s kinda hard not to in this situation.”

Mirage nodded, dimming his optics, and Wheeljack patted at the hand resting on his stomach. “You alright?” the inventor asked.

“Hm? Oh, yes.” Mirage propped his head up on his free hand, looking carefully at the engineer beside him. “You?”

“I’m good. I’m wonderful.” Wheeljack’s resonators flickered electric blue. “Thank you.”

Mirage chuckled. “You’re welcome. Though I must admit, I am feeling rather perplexed.”

“How so?”

“Well, I can understand why I was required for this particular scenario. I’m just confused as to why I was needed to perform. With the combined talents of you, Perceptor and Ratchet you could very easily have mimicked my cloaking technology for one of you.”

The exposed lips twisted down into a contemplative frown, and Mirage’s fingers twitched against Wheeljack’s hip, resisting the sudden urge to touch them.

“I suppose we could have,” Wheeljack conceded. “But it would have taken up some of the time we didn’t have.”

Wheeljack spoke with a kind of halting lilt to his voice, and Mirage got the impression that he was hiding something. “I would have thought that doing this with one of your partners to have been worth the time,” he said.

“Wait. What?’ Wheeljack’s resonators flashed a cheery yellow. “Partners? Do you mean… you think that me an’ Ratch an’ Percy are…?” He sniggered, turning his face into the berth. Beneath Mirage’s hand the engineer’s frame lurched in muffled laughter.

“Hey, don’t laugh,” Mirage felt himself pout. “Half of the base thinks you three are together. Especially with all of the coming and going of the last week,” he muttered.

“S-sorry, Mirage,” Wheeljack chuckled; “But… no, we’re not together. We’re friends, and if either of them have helped me out with this virus, I ain’t sayin’. Total confidentiality, remember?”

“Mmhm, I remember. Ratchet fairly shoved it up my exhaust.”

Wheeljack grinned over at him. “He’s not likin’ this situation much.”

“I would never have been able to tell.”

“Easy, ‘Raj. You’re still sounding a little sour about that energon this morning.”

Mirage pouted. “I can’t help it. I’d been thinking about that energon all shift.”

Wheeljack lifted himself up onto one elbow. “Come on, then. We’ll grab some on the way back to the grouchy ‘bot.”

Mirage smiled, and tried not to think about the real reason why he was sour. After all, it certainly wasn’t Ratchet’s fault, nor Wheeljack’s that the person he really wanted to interface with wanted neither screw nor bolt of him. And, though he was feeling a smidgen guilty that he had taken advantage of the engineer’s problems to sate his need for physical affection and closeness, it was hard to maintain when it was so clear that Wheeljack had enjoyed himself.

Walking at the engineer’s side into the commissary, he tried not to think about the tall dark mech in the corner, who watched him with questioning optics while holding the hand of another that Mirage would have loved to have hated.


	8. Wheeljack Invents a Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack, naturally, revolutionizes interfacing through SCIENCE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and all following chapters are brought to you courtesy of Yuuzaiden and Muzaiden, who have been amazingly supportive through the years, encouraging me when Wheeljack's misfortunes bogged me down.

Wheeljack stared at his invention critically.

It was the correct shape; an average, unthreatening size, built sturdy and with a solid base. Colourless base metal gleamed dully beneath the overhead lights. It was completely unassuming in appearance, not considering the purpose for which it was built. The current running through it was steady, output normal and well within safety parameters. Tiny blue arcs of electricity jumped from node to node, reaching out to caress over his finger when he brought it close to physically inspect its EM field.

He altered the current after a breem of observation, bolstering the strength and creating an anomaly so that the current pulsed intermittently with varying strength. Immediately, the EM field around the invention flared, expanding and condensing with the rhythm of the charge, still well within the safety margins. No change from the similar tests conducted in the morning.

Satisfied, Wheeljack cut the current, and it immediately stopped functioning, clicking and folding into itself like a fern frond, curling down to its base.

Right. Stage two of testing complete. Time for something a little more exciting.

“Commencing Stage Three of testing,” Wheeljack said aloud, the terminal in his laboratory transcribing for him. “Test subject one will be me; designation: Wheeljack. Chief Mechanical Engineer on board the Autobot Ark.”

He disconnected the cable attaching the invention to the external power supply, then cleared his workbench of any clutter.

“In the absence of a more suitable testing environment, this experiment will be conducted on the main workbench in my laboratory. Though, in my professional defense, I will say that one flat surface is as good as another, and in the spirit of this invention even the floor would be a valid location for a test-run.”

He hauled himself up onto the table, scooting back on it until he could rest one of his pedes on the edge. He hiked his legs up, spreading them wide, folding himself over so that he could see what he was doing.

His fingertip quickly found the receptor over the recently installed access panel, sending a pulse of his field directly into it and triggering the release of the latch. The small section of his plating folded away, allowing admittance to the network of cables and bundles nestled up deep between his legs.

He hefted the weight of his quiescent invention, and set it down in front of the opening. Pulling the white cable to full extension, one of only three cables attached to the device, Wheeljack pushed the fingers of both of his hands into the nest of cables between his legs and sought after one in particular. Finding what felt like the right one, he stroked the tip of one finger over its thick, ridged exterior and felt the thrum of arousing power answering. Swiftly, he connected the white cable to it, deft fingers folding the conductive band around its taught width.

“I’ve located the receptive arm of the Y-net. Spark energy is responsive. Feedback cable has been attached with no difficulties. I’m now gonna attempt to attach the sensors.”

Selecting the thin red cable with its connector at the end, shaped like the bud of a flower, Wheeljack deftly guided it into himself, pushing up and then back until the tip of the cable encountered a thick mass of tightly-woven ones. The thin vines parted around the slightly thicker red cable as Wheeljack pushed it steadily through, the bud-shaped connector pushing the sensory cables neatly aside, then holding it in place when Wheeljack gave an experimental backwards tug.

“The sensory cable feels to be in the correct position within the secondary sensory bundle at the base of the primary distributor. Now, I’ve outfitted this cable with a twist-switch, so when I twist it in two alternate directions, the connectors at the tip will unfold an’ secure its placement in the bundle.”

The instant that the bud-shaped connector unfolded and linked itself to the bundle Wheeljack could feel its presence.

“Network uplink confirms correct placement,” he murmured, rotating his hips tentatively, feeling the shifting of the slightly heavier sensory cable against the others in the bundle. “Ah, um, next I’ll connect the final of the three cables to the operative arm of the Y-net, close the circuit an’ commence with the sensory feed and borrowing.”

He guided the thick black cable inside of himself, searching out for the left arm of the Y-net. He brushed against it with his fingertip, his spark lurching in its casing and a gasp escaping his vocaliser at the nudge of pleasure.

“Uh, operative arm is located, but... hgn – frag, it keeps slipping out of my hold.”

He yelped, pinching the cable a little too hard when it slipped from his grasp yet again. “Frag!”

He started, hearing the abrupt swishing of his laboratory door opening behind him.

“Test subject has forgotten to lock the door,” he announced to the computer terminal. More loudly to whoever it was who entered the room; “Sorry, can you come back later? I'm a little busy right now.”

“'Jack, what are you doing?”

“Ratchet!” he shot a look back over his shoulder, confirming that it was, indeed, the medic coming to see him. “Oh, good! Come in and lock the door! I can't quite get this last cable in place and - _uh!_ ” His right leg jerked, almost leaping off the bench. “I could really use your help.”

“What in the name of Primus?” he heard Ratchet mutter beneath another unrepressed groan. The chirp of the door lock engaging confirmed that the medic was doing as asked.

“I have requested the assistance of Autobot Chief Medical Officer Ratchet to help me connect the final cable,” Wheeljack announced to the computer. He could hear Ratchet walking around the side of his workbench. “Also, if he is amenable, I would ask him to assist in monitoring me during the final phase of testing.”

“'Jack, you better not have been considering testing whatever it is without my supervis- _frag is that!?_ ”

Ratchet's expression upon finally coming around to the front of him and seeing what Wheeljack was attempting to do was priceless. Wheeljack couldn't contain a snicker at his expense.

“It's my invention!” he declared happily, then quickly threw his head back and groaned as the stubborn sought-after cable slipped free of his clamps again.

“It's, um, very interestingly-shaped.” Ratchet eyed him strangely.

“Just wait 'til you see it connected to an energy field.”

Ratchet hunched down so his optics were level with where Wheeljack's fingers were buried inside of himself. “It's a standard 3p system?” he queried.

“Yeah,” Wheeljack's fingertip slipped again and his left leg jolted. Ratchet's hand came up to hold it steady. “Didn't want anything too complicated,” he said.

“I can see that. Right. Get your fingers out of there. You can't see what you're doing.”

Wheeljack sighed in relief, relinquishing the thick black cable to his friend. “Thanks. Left arm of the Y-net, please.”

“Mm.”

Ratchet leaned in closer, and parted the cables between Wheeljack's legs with a delicacy the engineer was becoming quite familiar with.

“CMO Ratchet has agreed to assist in connecting the final cable of the device to the receptive arm of the Y-net,” Wheeljack declared. “ _Uhn!_ Cable located,” he grunted. It felt like Ratchet had a rather good hold of it.

“Initiating connection now,” Ratchet supplied, then hissed in displeasure. “ _Frell_. Slipped.”

Wheeljack bucked against the fingers encasing the cable in question. Ratchet pulled a hand away, grasping a firm hold of Wheeljack's hip, holding him still.

“The angle is wrong,” he muttered. “Tilt your pelvis up toward me more. Like this.”

Wheeljack followed the prompting of Ratchet's hand, pulling his pedes in closer to his body to get a sharper cant.

“That's better. I can see it clearly now. Hold still.”

Leaning back on his arms to steady his weight, Wheeljack watched Ratchet push his fingers back inside of him. It was a rather riveting sight, the long red fingers and broad palms disappearing into that dark, obscured place between his legs. Ratchet's face was firm with concentration.

“Initiating connection again,” Wheeljack murmured. This time it went without a hitch. “Connection complete.”

Almost as soon as the circuit was completed the base of the device attached itself to his plating. The length of it uncurled with the faintest of clicking noises.

“Primus,” Ratchet muttered, staring at where it stood to attention against Wheeljack's thigh. “You built an artificial cone.”

Wheeljack beamed. “Yup.”

“It's in the wrong place.”

“Then shift it.”

“You shift it.”

“Fine.” He raised his voice. “The device is fully connected,” he told the computer. “However, it attached itself to the incorrect place on my chassis, so I will correct its placement now.”

He reached down, gripping its solid, charged length with a careless grip he instantly regretted when hot, heavy energy thrummed up into his body and sent his spark into paroxysms of painful pleasure.

“Frag!” he yelped, falling backwards against the full length of his workbench. “Primus, it's sensitive!” He twitched, artificial cone aching.

Ratchet's face appeared above him. “You okay?”

“Ahuh,” he nodded. “Just... wow. Is that what the young guys feel all the time?” He shifted, wiggling his hips cautiously.

Ratchet shrugged, staring weirdly at the erect artificial cone. “You would have to ask them.” He reset his vocaliser with a bark, optics lifting to look at his face. “It's still crooked.”

Wheeljack looked down. “Oh. Um... I'll just fix that, yeah?”

He bit his lip beneath his mask, reaching down again and, reducing the EM field around his hand like he initially should have done, adjusted the base's placement.

“Better?”

Only a slight surge of pleasure that time. Wheeljack wondered if maybe the dry nodes contributed to the hypersensitivity. Usually cones secreted a superconductive lubricant when extended to contain the energy surges on the surface of the cone and interior walls of the port. Perhaps being dry was directing the current more inward.

He proposed the hypothesis to Ratchet, who nodded thoughtfully. “I'm sure you have that kind of lubricant around here somewhere,” he commented, waving a hand at the ordered clutter that adorned the shelves and spilled over the work tables. “Run a test. I'll monitor, of course.”

Wheeljack nodded at Ratchet's glare. “Of course,” he replied. “I wouldn't dream of runin' tests without some kind of supervision.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “Uhuh.”

“Yeah. I mean, I wouldn't test anythin' on myself without someone of medical experience attending for safety purposes.”

“Yeah. Okay, 'Jack, you can cut it out now, thanks.”

“Just, you know, expressing my appreciation for your concern.”

“Sure. You're welcome. Now get the lube and start playing with yourself. I do have to be back at the medbay in a joor.”

Wheeljack frowned behind his mask as he slipped down off of the work table, his device bobbing distractedly with each of his steps over to the far wall of shelves.

“Somehow, I don't think it will take _that_ long,” he muttered, reaching up and snatching the pressurised bottle of superconductive lubricant from the shelf above his head.

A slow ache was building up around the base of the device, his sensory net all too aware of the shape, weight and temperature of the invention. It was growing uncomfortably warm, and his spark was pulsing with aroused agitation, still aching in response to the initial burst of pleasure that walloped through him at his careless grasping.

When he turned back around Ratchet was staring at him, looking very determinedly at his face. He felt another grin spread under his mask. Apparently, Ratchet was feeling a little off-balance at the sight of him walking around with a cone stuck to his pelvis. Mischievously, he did a little wiggle.

Ratchet's optics flashed, his lips twisting into a small, tight frown. “Stop that,” he groused. “Be sensible.”

“You're right,” Wheeljack agreed. Besides, the sensation of the artificial cone swaying was... very peculiar. He hauled himself back up onto his workbench. Squirting a handful of lubricant onto his hand, he paused a moment in wait while Ratchet moved around to stand at the foot of the table. Part of his arm transformed, monitoring Wheeljack as he smeared the lubricant over the artificial cone. Almost instantly the sensations over the device sharpened and reduced.

Wheeljack grinned. “Oh, yeah. Definitely better with the lubricant.”

Ratchet kept his optics fixed firmly on his monitoring equipment, but reminded him to continue with his verbal observations.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot for a moment. Okay,” he shifted on the bench, finding a better position to sit in. Once he was more comfortable, his legs spread and one hand behind him holding his weight, he continued. “Commencing the final part of this phase of testing. Physical manipulation of the device.”

Slowly, he returned the EM field around his hand back to the normal levels, feeling gently around the base of the device before wrapping his hand decisively around its width.

His field surged, feeding the sensations up into his sensory bundle, setting his sensor net alight with the pleasure. The receptive band of the Y-net, however, remained mostly quiet. Current ran down through the operative arm, through the connector and into the artificial cone. His EM field bent at the touches to himself, but returned back to the receptive arm with nothing but his own field to report. It felt good, but it was also quite boring.

“Mm... I don't doubt that I could reach culmination of arousal by self-manipulation given enough time,” he spoke aloud. “But that is not the purpose of this test. In a moment I will activate the alternating field disruptor in my arm, and will find out how the device reacts to a foreign EM field.”

Ratchet's optics flashed. “'Jack? What?”

Wheeljack, ignoring Ratchet's almost instinctive protests, tapped a small pad on his opposite elbow with his free hand. Immediately, a hum started up, a strange visual shifting of light around his right, occupied arm.

“Alternate field establishing,” he called. “Established – _PRIMUS!_ ”

His vision whited out. Abruptly, he found himself flat on his back, Ratchet leaning over him worriedly, chassis almost glowing.

“Wheeljack! _'Jack!_ ”

“Think I had the field too high,” he slurred. “Gimme a sec an' I'll dial it down a bit.”

Ratchet's frown furrowed half of his faceplates. “I'm not allowing you time to do anything else. You're stopping this experiment right now.”

Wheeljack groaned, hefting himself up onto his elbows, then allowed Ratchet to help him the rest of the way upright. “Don't be a nursebot, Ratch'. I'm fine. An' it's _testin'_. This sort of stuff is supposed to happen. Now start monitorin' again and we'll give this another shot.”

“Wheeljack.”

“No, Ratchet. I need to do this. You know I need to do this.”

Ratchet stared at him, said nothing for almost an entire klik. Then, finally, he nodded. “I know,” he told him. “I know you do. Just start slow, please. This isn't going to work at all if you fry your sensory net.”

Wheeljack shrugged, and smiled in relief. “Heh, inventors. We're overachievers, remember?”

Ratchet didn't return his smile, only took a step back and raised his arm again. The diagnostics screen cast odd highlights across the planes of his face. “I know,” he said again. Then louder, directed over at the data station across the room. “Test subject CME Wheeljack is recommencing the test now.”

Wheeljack recalibrated the EM levels, then reached down tentatively to touch himself again.

He trembled almost from the first touch. It was different now that the settings were right. Softer. A tease more than a punch of sensation, and as he stroked the peripheral from root to tip and back again, fingers curled and barely holding it, a long full-body shudder swept through him and he rolled back flat onto the bench.

Pressure built slowly, carried up and up with each sweeping stoke of his hand against the artificial cone. He made a stifled sound, unable to contain it entirely, slithering further down the bench until his pedes could brace against the raised lip at the edge, knees drawn up and thighs splayed. His optics kept shuttering at the pleasure, flashing glimpses of the ceiling and Ratchet's riveted face between long periods of dark and mounting heat. He'd hoped it would feel this good, but he hadn't actually _known_.

His hips started to make small movements on their own, tiny tilts up into his hand to meet every third or fourth downward stroke. His engine began to rev in tandem, fans clicking into a higher gear. The need for more, more, more drove him to greater movements. He stretched out, left arm grasping over and above his head for the end of the bench, gripping tight while his backstruts arched and his hips thrust, thighs spreading wider and pedes scrabbling to brace his weight. Up, up, up he thrust, and he gasped while his hips rolled. Sparks of energy arced from the artificial cone to his hand, nodes communicating with pressure, heat, presence. His denta clamped down on his lower lip, optics flickering on to catch a snapshot image of Ratchet watching him, before they shuttered again and it all became too much.

“Almost there,” he whispered hurriedly, vocaliser crackling. His overload had started off far away but was now approaching with such speed that Wheeljack knew he wasn't going to be ready for it. “It's coming... Ratchet?”

“I'm monitoring.”

“Good.” He groaned, hitching his hips higher, tightening his hand, making a tight, slick tunnel for the artificial cone to bore into. Tighter, faster. Better. And there. “Primus, there it is. There! Ah! _Ahh!_ ” He flexed upwards, aft leaving the workbench completely, overcome with an overload that felt both alien and so, so right.

It was like he was paused there for a long breem, caught up and powered by the rush of culmination. He shivered compulsively, unable to stop. His hand would not release the cone, just kept stroking more and more of that bizarre sensation of sparkless orgasm out, and his overload just kept going and going. Until...

Until it just couldn't go any further, and at last Wheeljack slumped down against the bench, utterly sated.

“Holy Primus,” he said, once he'd taken control of his vocaliser again and could make more sound than just overwhelmed buzzing. “That was so slaggin'... _Primus_.” He flapped his hands feebly, too lazy at the moment to even move his arms from where they had splayed.

“It worked then?”

Wheeljack felt a dopey grin overtake his hidden mouth. “I don't think we're going to have any problems!”

 

 

 

He was jolted roughly from recharge several joors later by two mechs storming into his room and yanking him from his berth.

“What? What’s happening?” His pedes scrabbled between them, processors whirling to catch up. His optics were slow to come fully online and for a klik everything looked like a nightmare state of melting walls and soot and smoke. It passed quickly, and soon enough he was able to make out Trailbreaker and Roadbuster at his elbows.

“Sortie,” Trailbreaker told him, guiding him out into the corridor with a supporting, but very firm hand against his back until he’d gathered his legs beneath him. “You were comm’d, you failed to make muster, and we were sent to retrieve you. We don’t have much time so we’ll have to hurry.”

“What happened?”

“Decepticons are attacking an oil refinery in the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a huge mess,” Roadbuster spoke up from his other side. “Now can we get a move on?”

Wheeljack was prodded into a staggering run. He’d never really been a mech who rose gracefully out of recharge, but since the war and the rationing of energon he’d gotten even worse. These days it took half a breem for all his sluggish processors to get up to speed, and it didn’t matter how much he tinkered around with his programming to improve efficiency - he couldn’t fix the power deficit. One clear thought made it through his struggling processors though.

“You said I was comm’d?”

Roadbuster made a guttural impatient sound from Wheeljack’s left, but Trailbreaker at least wasn’t too impatient to get to battle to answer Wheeljack’s confused questions.

“At least twice. They called the officers first, then sounded the general alert. Did you not receive any of them?”

Wheeljack shook his head, perplexed. Teletran made sure the battle alarms were sounded directly through the internal communications systems, there should be no reason why he didn’t receive them. Unless…

Hurrying alongside Trailbreaker and Roadbuster, he sent a quick querying ping through to the black mech on his right. It bounced back straight away, as if hitting a firewall. An error report flashed up.

<< _invalid request_ >>

He sent another query, this time to the program itself.

<< _object not found_ >>

Not possible. He checked again, and then searched deeper, turning his attention inwards and allowing Trailbreaker to guide him to where he needed to be. It didn’t matter where he looked, though, he couldn’t find it. 

“ _Frag._ ” He pushed down the panic that wanted to flare up. That could wait. He needed to tell Ratchet.

They caught up with the rest of the party in the training room, a large chamber close to the rear of the ship that had once been used to contain dangerous goods in the Ark’s previous employment as a freighter. The brief had obviously just finished as Jazz was directing everyone gathered to roll out, but Wheeljack fought against the tide of departing mechs, hoping to find Ratchet somewhere in the throng. He found Swoop instead.

“Swoop!” He waved at the young mech. “Swoop!”

The large Dinobot turned at his shout and instantly stooped to greet him, almost knocking a few mechs over with his wings as he did so. Wheeljack was a bit startled by the hug that followed, because Swoop had never done that to him before, but he happily returned it with a joyful pat none-the-less. 

“Can you do me a favour?” he asked once they’d parted. Asking why the Dinobots had been called in would have to wait in line with his panic. The chamber was rapidly emptying and they needed to be quick.

Swoop nodded without hesitation, “Yep.” 

“Can you tell Ratchet that my internal comm’s are down?”

Swoop’s optics flickered. “Done,” he said a nanoklik later. 

Wheeljack sighed with relief. “Thanks.”

Swoop made a strange buzzing noise. “Him Ratchet say that you Wheeljack are an aft-head and that you Wheeljack have to see him Ratchet after battle.”

“Tell him ‘I promise’.”

“Done. Now we go.”

Wheeljack allowed himself to be escorted out of the ship by the much larger hand of one of his favourite creations. “Now we go.”

 

 

 

The next one came to him in the shower room.

The Decepticons had put up a messy fight, and mud and oil had been flung everywhere. All of the units were occupied – some of the smaller mechs even sharing – and the chatter was loud, boasting and abundant.

Wheeljack wasn't actually sure in what context the words had been used, who said them, or if they came from three different sentences or the same one. All he could confirm was that _teacher, student_ and _come_ had been said in close proximity to each other, and now he had more porn playing in his meta.

He didn't bother to turn it off, watching through the opening shots and build-up, scrubbing the caked mud off of his frame and out of his joints until what he was watching reminded him a little too much of his academy days and he had to shut it down or else start doing something wildly inappropriate.

This new scenario was going to be tricky. He was by far old enough to be in the role of the professor, but as he'd confessed earlier to Ratchet he was not all that comfortable in the role of the dominant or aggressor, not when all of this was his own fault in the first place. No, he couldn't ask it of the others to submit to him when they were already doing so much. There was really only one thing for it … he had to commission the help of a 'bot older than himself. There were barely a handful. Ratchet, by scarcely a vorn; Kup by so many of them they'd lost count, and Ironhide by slightly less than that. Omega Supreme was simply far too large, and no one had any idea just how old Smokescreen was, though the general consensus was up there between himself and Ratchet.

Selecting was even more difficult, and he mulled the choices over while he picked clods of mud out from his pedes. He couldn't ask Ratchet. The medic was already doing so much for him, and Smokescreen was... tricky. He didn't know about Kup. The old 'bot was generally up for anything, but the scenario called for a certain level of aggressiveness that he wasn't certain the old-timer possessed. Then again, Perceptor hadn't been anything like he'd thought, either, and what a surprise that had been!

Still, that really only left Ironhide. It would be rather fitting if he agreed, as the old warrior had trained Wheeljack in weaponry when he'd first joined the ranks. Teaching was in his code. Wheeljack continued to scrub himself down and determined to ask Ironhide about it once the general clean up had been completed.

It was a fair few breems before everyone declared themselves clean enough to leave the washrooms and in the mass exodus Wheeljack lost sight of the rough warrior. By the time he had weaved himself out into the corridor Ironhide was long gone.

“Frell.” He wracked his meta for ideas to where the weapons and security specialist might have vanished to. If only his internal comms were still operational then this would never have been a problem.

He checked Ironhide's quarters first, supposing that he might have had a reason to go there, but his hails went unanswered. The next check was at Security, but the monitor room was only attended to by a frazzled-looking Red Alert, who stared at him suspiciously but answered politely when Wheeljack asked him if he knew where Ironhide was.

“Getting a drink, I believe,” he said, gesturing at one of the screens. Wheeljack glanced at it, then nodded his thanks, his next stop the commissary.

It was fairly crowded inside, apparent that most of the 'bots involved in the latest battle required energon in addition to a long cleaning. Wheeljack lifted himself onto the tip of his pedes, searching over heads taller than his own for a familiar red helm.

He spotted Ironhide at a far table, sitting with a couple of the minibots and Hound. He moved steadily over to them, choking back his nervousness. Asking Bluestreak had been a harrowing experience in itself, even knowing that the barely out of younglinghood mech would probably say yes. Ironhide was more experienced, more stubborn, and known for sometimes being rather unreasonable. That Wheeljack could feel his hands trembling minutely did not come as a surprise.

Ironhide noticed his approach when he was barely a table-length away. He threw him a welcoming grin and waved him over. He thrust an energon cube at him as he sat down, but Wheeljack shook his head and politely declined. Though he could handle the acrid smell a little better now, the taste was still something his systems were having trouble with. Wheeljack was of the mind that until the virus was completely eradicated, imbibing energon the normal way was something he was just going to have to live without. Ironhide shot him a concerned look but said nothing about it. No doubt he'd noticed Wheeljack's aversion to drinking in public, too.

“Great success today, wasn't it?” the security office said instead. “Saw ya take down Skywarp. Nice work.”

“Thanks.” Wheeljack felt unaccountably flustered by the compliment. “You're just as efficient and impressive as you've always been.”

Ironhide waved off his attempt at complimenting him in return and took a sip of energon. “Nah, I'm gettin' slow.” A deep frown etched itself into his derma. “I'm startin' to miss more'n I hit. Time was I coulda shot those minicon birdbrain's outta the sky with my optics turned off. Now I'm havin' trouble even seein' 'em.”

Wheeljack huffed air through his intakes with indignation. Ironhide was in one of _those_ moods again. Huffer would launch into them all of the time. The “One Servo In the Scrap-Heap” bemoaning's that could take upwards of a joor to get through. Wheeljack didn't have the time for one of those.

“Don't talk like that, Ironhide. You're still taking and making shots the majority of us would have a hard time even attempting,” Hound put in.

Ironhide nodded slowly, taking another draught. “True, true.”

“And to be honest,” Wheeljack added. “I think Soundwave's been installing new hardware into his cassette's. It's not just you that's having trouble spotting them these days. Maybe some new cloaking ability or an obscurity device of some sort.”

Ironhide shook his head and chuckled. “Ya don't need to make excuses for me, 'Jack. I know I'm old. Things are gonna start slaggin' out on me.”

“The klik you start moaning about your receptors is the klik when I'll start believing that. I know for a fact they still work on sparkling levels. I think it bothers Jazz more than he lets on that you're the only one who can beat him in the betting pool.”

“Don't it just?” Ironhide laughed, slapping his hand on the table and taking another drink of his energon.

“Speakin' o' receptors,” Ironhide continued, face turning to give Wheeljack a penetrative look. “I've been hearin' some rather interestin' things about you, lately.”

Wheeljack felt his central pump freeze, seizing audibly for a moment before lurching back into action, half again as fast as it had been working before.

“Oh yeah? Such as?”

Ironhide shook his head, still looking at him but with less intensity now. Wheeljack knew he'd already given himself away.

“Don't think I should say. Most of it's speculation, but some of it's pretty disturbin'. I get the feelin' that it's somethin' you're gonna put me straight about in a breem, anyway.”

Wheeljack grimaced beneath his mask, nervousness surging up in him again like a tidal wave. “Can't put anything past you,” he mumbled. “You're almost as bad as Ratchet.”

“Ah, but Ratchet c'n only see things that have nothin' ta do with him. As soon as he's involved all of his objectivity goes out the window.”

Wheeljack frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Ironhide shook his head. “Doesn't matter, really.” He drained his cube and rose to his pedes. “Where d'ya wanna talk?”

Wheeljack hurried to his pedes, stepping over the seat bench to catch up to the older 'bot. “Your office?”

“Red monitors it.”

“Oh, okay. Wait. He does?”

Ironhide nodded, leading him out of the commissary. “Yup. Your lab, too.”

Wheeljack's steps faltered, a tingle of shock coursing through him. “I requested that it be switched on only in the event of an emergency.” He was surprised his voice came out as even as it did, considering the things he was remembering doing in there whilst assuming it was private.

“Obviously Red considers you a permanent emergency.”

Wheeljack cycled air furiously. “What about the medbay?”

“The medbay?” Ironhide's voice held the merest thread of curiosity. “No camera zone. It's an invasion of privacy. The same reason why personnel quarters aren't monitored as well.”

Wheeljack cycled a sigh of relief. “Okay, one of our quarters will do then. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure. Mine's closer.”

Wheeljack's nerves manifested physically during the short walk, his fingers twitching and twining together in a clear display which he was sure Ironhide had noticed, despite his effort to keep them still and at his sides. He couldn't help but glance up close to the ceiling of the corridor when they came to a stop outside of Ironhide's door. The small, barely detectable monitoring strip was faintly glowing, online and recording. He could almost feel the suspicious optics of Red Alert watching them through the circuits. A gentle touch on his upper arm drew his attention away from the camera, and Ironhide inclined his head, indicating that he should enter the room.

Wheeljack felt himself only marginally relax when the door slid audibly shut behind him.

“Look,” Ironhide said before Wheeljack could start. “I know you're going to ask me somethin' real personal here, and it's clear to me that it ain't easy for ya, so I'm just gonna sit over here on my chair, and let ya know that I ain't gonna shoot ya or hit ya, no matter what ya ask, 'kay?”

Wheeljack nodded. “Okay.”

Ironhide settled himself into his chair. “Right. 'M ready. Hit me.”

“I need you to interface with me.”

Ironhide was silent for a moment, and then slowly he nodded. “Okay. Was kinda hopin' that part of the rumour's weren't true. Now, why?”

“I have a virus.”

“Okay?”

“Not really. It's integrating fast, hiding itself extremely well all over my systems. It's activated by keywords, and when a certain number of them are said, an avi file runs in my active memory, allowing us to locate where that specific file is hiding. It can only be purged by replacing it with something else, and with key markers in the original files the new ones have to be pretty close to the originals.”

“You can't leave the virus alone?”

“It's interfering with my systems. Internal comms just went down and I can't drink energon anymore.”

“Noticed that.”

Wheeljack smiled weakly behind his mask. “Thought you had.”

Ironhide leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He cycled air noisily for a nanoklik, then his frame settled. “Okay,” he said.

Wheeljack's optics flickered. “Sorry?”

“I said okay. I'll do it.”

Wheeljack felt his frame shudder as he relaxed in relief. A smile spread beneath his mask, and his hands dropped from where they were grasping at each other. “Thanks, Ironhide.”

“You're welcome. Now, show me what I need to do.”

“First you better come with me to the medbay. Ratchet's going to want to know.”

Ironhide groaned. “Primus, I'm not sure _I_ want to know.”

“Too late. Come on.”

 

 

 

Ratchet looked up from his desk when they entered, his hands dropping whatever it was he was working on and pushing him up to his pedes. “Another one?” he asked quietly.

Wheeljack nodded, obediently following. He pulled Ironhide along beside them as Ratchet gestured them into the back room. Wheeljack was starting to grow tired of its familiar walls already.

“I just paged Perceptor. He's on his way.”

Wheeljack nodded again, moving over to help Ratchet set up the upload. “Ironhide's agreed to help me out with this one,” he told the medic.

Ratchet shot the older 'bot a stern look over his shoulder. “I don't need to tell you to keep this quiet, do I?”

Ironhide slumped his shoulders. “Now what kinda mech d'ya take me for, Ratch?”

“Good. Sit down. This will take a while.”

Perceptor arrived shortly after, and Wheeljack was quickly plugged into. He was steadily getting more used to the cool creeping of Perceptor through his meta. His reactions were growing less violent to the sensation, but Wheeljack wasn't sure if that was due to experience or that he was getting better at suppressing his initial reactions.

“I've located it,” Perceptor said shortly. “Replicating and uploading. On screen now.”

Wheeljack watched it all the way through this time, still strongly reminded of his education in the Altihex Science Academy – right up until the part where the professor started talking crudely and Wheeljack would sure have remembered if his tutors had started talking to him like that. The sex followed, certainly more penetrative than the last two had been, with more dialogue as well which Wheeljack committed to memory. It drew to a noisy conclusion, and Ratchet replayed the video again for Ironhide's benefit, though the old warrior confessed to having already memorised his parts.

“Now,” Ironhide said after a while. “I assume that you've got some sort of artificial cone or somethin' for me to wear, right? 'Cause I certainly ain't young enough to have one of my own. An' I sure as the pit don't think it would be possible to do half o' that stuff without one,” He flapped his hand in the vague direction of the diagnostics screen.

Wheeljack was once again impressed by Ironhide's foresight. Despite the lazy accent, his intelligence wasn't anything to make light of. “You got it!” he said, delighted. “I'm calling it the Plug for now. I'll come up with a better name later. It's only been test-run on a mech once, but it passed all the prelim tests with excellent results and the sensory feedback from the mech trial were all within acceptable limits.”

He crossed the room, opening the lockbox on Ratchet's desk and pulling out the neatly coiled Plug and joined cables. Grinning beneath his mask, he showed it to the older warrior.

“It straightens when it encounters an energy field directly,” he said, responding to Ironhide's skeptical expression. “These three cables connect to the two main carrier lines at the Y-net in the pelvis, and to the sensory bundle just behind it. When installing it, only connect to one arm in the Y-net and the sensory bundle. Leave the black cable to the last minute. The base of the Plug is EM sensitive as well and will adhere to your plating quite firmly. We'll show you how to install it, so you don't need to look so worried.”

Ironhide grunted. “I'm not worried about your Plug,” he said. “Though I'd hate for it to explode while I'm interfacin' ya into the desk, but yanno...” he shrugged. “I'm more concerned 'bout how long it's gonna take ya to completely purge the virus. D'ya know how many files ya were dumped with?”

Wheeljack shook his head, the shiny wall panels reflecting back Ratchet and Perceptor doing the same behind him. “We're hoping that there's not more than fifteen, but the only indication we have to go by are the keywords.”

Ironhide frowned. “So there could be dozens?”

Wheeljack jerked his head in a nod. “Possibly.”

“Ya gonna have to tell Prime.”

“Yes. But not yet. I want to wait as long as I can.”

“Don't leave it too long,” Ironhide warned. “If he finds out before ya tell him, his initial reaction'll be of suspicion, not compassion. He's runnin' on a short fuse at the moment.”

“Noted.”

“Good. So, there's a general meeting scheduled for in 8 joors. The Strategy room is unmonitored and has the large filo screen on the wall. We could re-enact the sex in there.”

Wheeljack looked to Ratchet, a little stunned by the swift turn of the conversation, but pleased by it. “It would work.”

Ratchet nodded. “You can set it up?” he asked Ironhide.

“I'm givin' the report,” he replied, a smirk twisting his lips.

“Guess it's settled then,” Ratchet patted Wheeljack's shoulder. “I suggest you get some recharge and then come back here. You're going to need some more processed energon before this scenario.”

“Sure thing, Ratch.”

Ironhide came up and stood close. “An' I'll see you in 8 joors. Ya sure you're okay with this?”

Wheeljack nodded decisively. “Positive. Thanks, Ironhide.”

“Ya welcome.” He reached out and touched Wheeljack's shoulder lightly. “C'mon. I'll walk ya back to ya quarters.”

“Really, Ironhide, you don't need to-”

“Jus' let me be a gentlemech for at least part o' this, will ya?”

“Oh,” Wheeljack quietened his protests. “Oh, all right.”

**Author's Note:**

> For [Lapinporokoira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapinporokoira) from the Transformers Anonymous Kink Meme on LiveJournal.


End file.
